Small Mercies
by StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: The man formerly known as Simon Cruller is on the verge of losing his mind from solitude and the burden of being the self-appointed narrator of the end of the world. When he meets Faye Keneally, a conservationist stranded in the Arctic, he starts to think there's hope for him after all. But winter is coming, and in the long Polar night some of the shadows have teeth.
1. Midnight Sun

**A/N: The overall story is rated M for swearing, sexual content and themes of non-consensual sex. It also deals with depression. I'll warn in individual chapters for sexual content.**

 **Also note that this story is entirely set in the Arctic. It starts about three weeks after the events of Zunami. I wanted to explore the effects of loneliness and the Polar night on a character I felt we don't see enough of, particularly in season 2, and also fill in some unanswered questions.  
**

 **Contains spoilers right through season 2. AU.**

 **I don't own Z Nation or the characters from it.**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **Midnight Sun**

 _We're going to die out here,_ Lars says. Although of course he doesn't, because he's not really there.

It's the height of the Arctic summer, but Faye is still cold, even in her parka. It's so silent, with nothing to hear but the rippling of water against the hull of the _Arctic Fox_ , the occasional rifleshot of ice cracking in the distance. The sound of her own breath.

 _And me,_ Lars says.

"Leave me alone. I'm thinking." She's been trying to remember the first time she saw the Aurora Borealis. Testing herself. She can feel herself slipping, making mistakes. She's been alone too long. Maybe it's a good thing that Lars is back.

 _That's it,_ she thinks. That long weekend in Reykjavik with the dick who worked in the city. What was his fucking name? For the life of her she can't remember, but she can picture the way he stubbed out cigarettes as though he'd been mortally offended by the ashtray. The two of them on the balcony of their hotel room, staring up at the sky, their faces illuminated by the shimmering lights. Just for a little while the differences between them were swept away by something that was older than humanity and-

No. She's remembering it wrong. Because they hadn't seen a thing. The conditions hadn't been right, and he'd done nothing but bitch about it the whole of the flight back to London. Around about the time he started talking about suing the travel company was when she realised she couldn't bear to spend another minute in his company.

She always did have terrible taste in men.

So no. Not then. But when? It feels like the sort of thing she should remember. Like her first kiss. The first time she ever got drunk. The first time she ever fell in love.

"It doesn't matter," she tells herself. But it does. It matters because it feels like another part of her has slipped away. Like she's fragmenting, breaking up like melting ice. And soon there might not be anything left.

She stares up at the unnaturally bright sky, wondering if she'll ever see the lights again. Wishing the darkness would come back. She should go to bed; despite the daylight it's past midnight, but she can't bring herself to move.

Because they're _back_. It's not just Lars anymore.

The three of them, Deepak and Leanne and Keppler, crowding around the boat, floating in the water. Their broken fingers search for purchase on the curved metal hull. Trying to climb.

She'd tell herself that she's crazy, but in a world where the dead come back to life, that's not working any more. And in any case, it's not exactly reassuring to think she's going insane.

She hears the tread of a foot somewhere to her left. She tenses but Lars is content to stand for the moment. Content to watch.

It's always worse at night. Even under the midnight sun.

The lies come easier when she's busy. She can seek out the few research facilities and meagre pockets of humanity that lie along the shore. Mostly they're empty, at least of living humans. She's found one or two of the dead, but never many and they're seldom hard to deal with. Out here they're slow and sluggish from the cold.

She kills and she takes what she can, whatever she can use.

It's polar bears she fears more than the human dead. Because they're _not_ slow and sluggish, even the dead ones. She hasn't seen a live one in six months. Not since the winter. Not since the cabin. She's safe on the boat as long as she doesn't let it get too close to drift ice and give them a chance to climb aboard.

Usually she can always find something to do. Even if it's only a stock-check of her supplies; fuel, in particular, is a worry that gnaws her to the bone. Or she can redraw the rationing plan, each time trying to eke it out a fraction longer, tacking on precious minutes onto her life.

But bit by bit it all seems so futile. What is she buying herself time for, really? She doesn't have enough fuel to escape the Arctic, and the thought of venturing into warmer climes fills her with dread. The bone-deep cold and the isolation, this she knows.

She just wishes she had the Aurora Borealis to keep her company, to remind her that how little her loneliness matters. How small she is. She's sick of sunlight.

The only time she really feels normal is when she's watching the birds. Perched aft, peering through her binoculars, she counts nesting sites on the shoreline or watches the gulls wheel and scream around the icecaps. Turns out that without so many human beings around, the birds are doing just fine. It's ironic, really.

How does it feel to have wasted your entire career, Keneally? You could have been studying something _useful_.

In a funny way it gives her hope. At least some living beings are doing well out of the apocalypse. It makes her think that when she walks into the cabin they'll all be there, playing Scrabble and swapping anecdotes about drunken nights out. Deepak and Keppler and Leanne.

Even Lars, watching her with his hooded eyes, a cigarette caught between his lips.

A rifle crack of ice sheering off shatters her daydream and a wave slaps against the boat. They're back. She can hear them whispering up to her. If she closes her eyes, she knows she'll see them, waxy faces beneath the glossy surface of the water. She can even picture the reflection of the sunlight dancing in their glassy eyes.

 _We're going to die out here._ And Lars is back. Fucking great. Just what she needs.

"Leave me alone," she says.

 _You don't really want that._

"Yes, I do."

 _Then why do you keep bringing me back? You need me, Faye. You need me to do what you can't. How long would you have survived without me to look after you?_

She closes her eyes, remembering. Lars's knife, heavy in her hand. The point digging into the skin at Deepak's temple. He'd coughed up blood, stared up at her with pleading eyes.

She couldn't do it. Not with him looking at her. And now Deepak is back; they're _all_ back, to punish her for everything she did, everything she failed to do. The three of them, dead in the water. And Lars at her side.

They're climbing. She doesn't know how, but they're climbing, inching their way up the hull. She has the rifle, but there's three of them and she can't waste the cartridges. Maybe the knife, but she's left it in the cabin, but if that didn't work the first time round-

"Oh fuck, I'm losing my mind." She presses her hands against her face, forces herself to her feet. She stumbles to the side of the boat. It's a moment before she can make herself look, certain the last thing she will see is Deepak's frozen hand, reaching up for her.

There's nothing there. Of course there isn't. Lars finished him. He's dead. _Really_ dead. And there's nothing there except the sunlight sparkling on the water.

 _We're going to die out here,_ Lars says again, and this time she can feel his breath against the back of her neck. She turns her head, knowing she will see him, or maybe just his white-eyed corpse, but of course there's nothing there.

"Speak for yourself," Faye mutters, and wraps her arms around herself, shivering. "You utter knob."

The trouble is he isn't wrong. Because she _is_ dying, isn't she? With every day that passes, that's becoming clearer to her. She's been on her own too long.

So yeah, she's dying. There's no question of that. The only question is how fast or how slow? And the choice is up to her.

* * *

Inside the cabin, it's a little warmer. She scratches at her neck, then grimaces at the dirt packed beneath her fingernails. Maybe it's a good job she's alone. She can't remember the last shower she had. But she remembers the last bath all right, in that hotel room in Spitsbergen. She remembers sinking beneath the surface of the bubbles, the hot water rising like fingers to her scalp. Warm water. Shampoo. A proper bed, with a duvet crisp and white as freshly fallen snow. The breakfast buffet, pancakes made to order, stacked piles of pastries. Rye bread and smoked salmon and crispy strips of bacon lashed with maple syrup and freshly squeezed-

"Stop it, stop it, _stop it._ "

She needs to be elsewhere. Needs to lose herself in something, just for a little while. Her gaze falls on her rifle first, and she wrenches it away towards the radio. She draws in a shaky breath, and all at once Lars is back. She can sense him behind her, can feel the weight of his watching gaze.

 _Don't touch it,_ he says. _You know it won't help. It only makes you feel worse._

Even when he sounds calm, she can't ignore him. She cringes as she picks up the radio, hating herself for feeling so afraid of a man who isn't even there.

 _I'd leave it alone if I were you,_ he hisses, and although she hasn't heard him move his voice sounds in her ear.

She jerks her head around. He's not there. _Hiding,_ she thinks, wildly, and then closes her eyes, ashamed at how delusional her thoughts have become. Of course he's not hiding. He's nothing more than a hallucination. Not even that.

Citizen Z on the other hand...

The first time she'd heard his voice had been shortly after Keppler's suicide. Leanne was starting to fall apart, constantly spinning the radio dial, searching for answers and finding only static, the background muzak of the apocalypse.

Only this time she twisted the dial and they weren't alone any more. She'd found something other than the death rattle of civilisation.

A man's voice. American. Young. Filled with something that might actually have been hope. That was something Faye hadn't heard in a while.

"-If anyone out there is listening, safe and warm and holed up against the Zs, or maybe not so safe, this isn't the end. People are out there. Fighting for survival. Fighting for the human race-"

And Lars, his eyes dark and burning, reached out and switched the radio off. When Leanne made a grab for it, he jerked it out of reach. She stood up, trembling, her face white with rage. Then she was gone, slamming the door behind her.

Leaving Faye with Lars. Alone.

 _Deepak's right below,_ she reminded herself. _You're not afraid of Lars. You're safe._

 _Yeah, right._

"What the fuck, Lars?" she said, as soon as she could trust herself to speak.

And he smiled, his friendly, conversational self once more. "That guy's insane, he said, lighting a cigarette. Like always, he offered her one, and like always, she shook her head, although it was starting to seem pointless worrying about lung cancer in the middle of the zombie apocalypse. "Fucking nut-job. Calls himself Citizen Z."

"You've heard him before?"

He grunted. "He's based in some NSA facility on Ellesmere Island. I thought about raiding it for supplies, but it's too far inland. Besides they'll have shipped out, stripped it bare."

Faye sat up. "You mean, here in the Arctic? But if there's somewhere we can go, somewhere safe-"

"The boat is safe." His tone was final. Faye felt her resolve quail. _You're not afraid of him. Not afraid of him. Not afraid of him._ "Are you listening to me? They'll have shipped out. Long ago. There will be nothing there. Am I speaking English here, Faye? Sometimes I wonder."

"Yes," she whispered. "But Lars-"

"We are safe here, Faye. Trust me on this. That place is a fucking tomb."

And now she hesitates over the radio. Because dead or not, Lars has a point. Being so close to someone living, knowing that if she had the guts she might actually be able to reach out and communicate, possibly even _more_ , that hurts. Because she knows she isn't brave enough. Not yet. She's been through too much, knows too well what the dangers are to a woman on her own. So she wavers, about to put the radio down again, bt then she hears it, the water slapping at the hull, and this time it sounds exactly like hands.

The dead things are closing in again.

"Fuck it," she says, and she's not sure whether she's talking to herself or to Lars or to the stranger on the other end of the radio. Possibly the only other living soul in the Arctic, impossibly close and impossibly far away all at once. And she switches on the radio, twists the dial like a junkie searching for one last rush.

At first there's nothing, and her eyes sting with tears, but suddenly there it is, not the voice she's been craving, but music – a song that she knows but cannot place. It fills her with a kind of fury that her memory is slipping so badly. Because she _knows_ this band, can picture the lead singer strutting, hands on hips. In a flash it comes to her. It's the Rolling Stones, _Gimme Shelter_ , and she sinks back with a laugh of relief and lets the sound of another world spill over her, washing away the pain and the fear just for a little while.

When the song finishes, there's a good half minute of dead air. Whoever Citizen Z is he's no professional disk jockey. She waits and pours herself a vodka, tops it up with a little more vodka, and soon enough he's there, the self-appointed narrator of the end of the world. No voices tonight other than his own: soft, melancholy and more than a little bit drunk.

Well, she intends to get more than a little bit drunk herself, so she toasts the radio, closing her eyes.

He might be a stranger, someone she will never meet, but other than her own his is the only real voice she's heard in close to three months now, and there's no more beautiful sound than that.


	2. Miles to Go Before I Rest

**Chapter Two**

 **Miles to Go Before I Sleep**

 _That's the funny thing about the apocalypse_ , Citizen Z muses. Every day blurs into one. Especially here in his underground bunker, with no view other then the screens, his multi-faceted windows on the world. Not the best scenery: watching the world die.

He's starting to lose track of the line between day and night. Sometimes he'll turn from the screen, and find that hours have passed where he expected only minutes. And some days it's like time doesn't seem to be moving at all.

This is one of _those_ days.

It's two in the morning, only his body is swearing blind that it's noon and time for lunch, only the thought of touching the MRE he fetched from the stores is turning his stomach. Possibly something to do with the empty whisky miniatures that litter his desk.

The dog, on the other hand, watches hungrily. Citizen Z sighs, picks up the food and pushes it across the floor to the husky.

His eyelids feel like they've been propped up with matchsticks. Too long in front of the screens. He's already signed off from the broadcast, and should get his ass to bed; the pounding pressure behind his right eyeball is telling him so pretty insistently, but he just has this feeling that he's going to be needed.

Any. Minute. Now.

He waits, chews on his lower lip, then snags the radio, tries to check in with Delta-X-Ray. Nothing but dead air.

Okay, he's not achieving anything here. Time to sleep. Only he can't quite bring himself to get up.

The dog finishes the MRE, looks expectantly for more.

"Sorry, boy. That's all there is." The dog whines, and he slides the chair over, ruffles the dog affectionately behind the ears. "Aw, don't be like that. Was it good?" He's rewarded with a slobber, and then the dog's settling down again, with the sort of heartfelt sigh that only a dog can manage. Warmth, safety and food; what more could anyone want?

"Yeah, you're right," Citizen Z says. He rubs the back of his neck, thinking about bed. Only he's pretty sure sleep is going to be evasive tonight. Nothing worse than lying on that hard bottom bunk, chasing sleep and failing abysmally, watching the numbers on the digital clock tick towards the next day.

Another day of... what? Bouncing the tennis ball in the hanger – he's learnt his lesson about the golf, but he misses it – an hour or so of shooting zombies, watching the screens, waiting to hear back from Addy, Murphy and the others, wishing they'd at least get in touch to tell him how they are, even if they don't need help.

 _Especially_ if they don't need help.

Be nice just to have a conversation with someone. He glances at the dog with a twist of his lips. A conversation with someone who can talk back, at least.

 _Bed,_ he tells himself, and this time he means it. Hell, he can always masturbate. Sometimes that helps, although it's yet another once-pleasant activity that's losing its lustre. Still another twenty minutes tick by until he manages to gather the resources to stand. Maybe he isn't eating enough. He's definitely drinking too much.

But fuck it, what else is there for him to do? Can't play golf any more, and even the vicarious thrill of shooting zombies in the skull is starting to lose its charm. Not so fun when he remembers that other folk are out there having to do it for real, risking death in the process.

By the time he's finally up and on his feet his headache has gotten so bad he can't focus on the screens any more, but before he can leave the radio crackles with the words, "Citizen Z?"

Immediately he's back, desperate to help, even if part of his motivation is just the urge to hear another human voice.

"Yes, hello? Operation Bitemark? Operation Bitemark, do you copy?"

There is a long pause. _It's not them_ , he thinks, shoulders sinking with disappointment. There's no one there. Maybe he's hearing things. And then, just as he's about to give up and turn away, the radio crackles again and a voice speaks.

"'Operation Bitemark?' Well, _that's_ not ominous in the slightest."

It's a woman's voice. British accent. Not one of his team unless they've picked up another stray in the time they've been out of contact. Her voice is cracked and slow from misuse.

Someone new.

He grins and sits down. Always happy to talk to someone new. And a female voice is the icing on the cupcake. "What's your story, Ma'am? Anything I can do to help?"

"No." She sounds resigned, unhappy. "I don't think so. But I appreciate the offer."

"Are you sure? I've got satellite, weather reports... You name it."

"The Eye in the Sky." Now she sounds amused.

"Something like that. What's your location?" He could look at the screen but his skull is pounding so hard he'd rather just talk to her. She doesn't answer. Well, that's okay. She's not the first person to be antsy about about identifying details.

Besides he's pretty sure _this_ is the help she needs. A voice on the end of the line. He recognises loneliness when he hears it. He'd bet anything she's on her own, maybe has been for a while.

So okay, a safer question. Something that won't scare her away. "What's your name, Ma'am? What do you do"

At first he thinks she's gone, but then she answers. "Faye Keneally. I'm a Ph. D. student. Well, I _was_."

"What's your field?"

"Avian migration, primarily." Now there's definite amusement in her voice. "But you'd be surprised at how useful it's proved in the zombie apocalypse."

"Oh, I'll bet. Every team needs one, the medic, the sniper, the ornithologist."

She laughs, and it is quite possibly the best sound he's heard all day. Maybe all week. Actually, probably longer. Enough to make his headache ease off just the tiniest bit. Even so he swallows a yawn. Wait, _now_ he's tired?

"Are you safe?" he asks. "Many Zs where you are?"

"Actually no... Zs." She says it like it's not a term she's familiar with, like it's strange on her lips. "It's pretty quiet here."

He glances at his screen through bleary eyes. The call is coming through on the VHF maritime mobile band, so she's probably on a boat or a ship. Makes sense that she's safe from Zs then. He's glad for her. Nice to know that not everyone is fighting for their lives out there.

"But that's not the same as 'safe', is it?" she continues. She doesn't sound amused any more.

He closes his eyes, because this is the track his thoughts have been taking lately, particularly after what he now thinks of as the Yuri-incident. "No, it's not. How's your supply situation?"

"As good as can be expected." Her voice is guarded now, skirting the details. "Given the circumstances."

 _Yeah_ , he thinks, _and just what the hell are your circumstances?_ It's frustrating; he wants to help, but if she won't let him, what else can he do?

"I meant what I said, Ms Keneally. I want to help. Anything I can do, you name it. If you need supplies, I might be able to pinpoint possible locations to search. That sort of thing."

"Again," she says, "I appreciate the offer."

His shoulders slump. "If you ever want to talk again... you know where I am."

"Yes. I do."

And that makes him sit up. Because there's something in the tone of her voice that suggests she knows something that he doesn't. He glances at the sat feed on his screen and immediately his spine prickles with disquiet.

 _That's not possible._

"Uh, Ms Keneally..." _Who the hell are you? And where are you?_

When she speaks again her voice is tense and frightened. "I've got to go," she whispers. "Something's here."

He stares at his screen. At the unmistakeable outline of coastline that he recognises as the western coastline of Ellesmere Island. _It can't be._ It has to be a trick. Maybe whoever tried to hack into his system. Either that or he's fallen asleep at his desk again and this is all a dream. Or another hallucination. "Is it a Z?" His voice sounds hollow.

"No." And her voice is so soft he's not sure he hears her correctly. "I think it's another fucking bear."

"Wait!"

Too late. She's gone.

Citizen Z sits back in his chair, chewing on his lip.

His mouth dry, he calls up the internet, a mass graveyard littered with porn and cat videos. He taps her name into Google, then studies the results for a few moments, his worry and paranoia percolating, mingling with gradually blossoming hope.

Because Faye Keneally checks out.

She's a research student with Cambridge University, connected with the Arctic Migratory Birds Initiative. Studying the affects of climate change on the migratory patterns of Arctic birds.

Quickly, he clicks back to the results. It takes him a little while to bring up more info on Faye Keneally. Her footprint on social networking sites is limited, but he navigates to the details of her thesis, and from there to one of her fellow Ph.D. students, an Indian man called Deepak Sharma who's much more active on social media. Pre-Z, he's uploaded several vlogs to his Facebook page, and Citizen Z clicks on the most recent, leaning forward impatiently as the guy chatters on in a London accent, pointing the camera at the water, at the hull of the boat grinding through the mass of ice. The time code jumps.

"Check this out," Deepak says, turns the camera to point at a slab of ice. At a polar bear watching the boat. "Hey, Faye. You think it looks hungry?"

And the camera swings around and he sees a slender blonde woman, leaning against the door to the cabin, a steaming mug in her hands. "Bloody hell, Deep. Don't point that thing at me. Not before I've had my coffee." And it's the same educated British accent he heard over the radio. Richer and more musical, devoid of the hoarse crackle that comes from misuse, but there's no mistaking it. It's _her._

"My first bear," Deepak says. "He, er, he can't get to us, can he?"

"Just watch out for any passing icebergs, and you'll be fine." This is a new speaker, a dark-haired man with a strong Scandinavian accent. He mutters something in Swedish into Faye Keneally's ear, and she coughs laughter into her coffee, covers the back of her hand with her mouth. She glances up at him, eyes creased, smiling.

"Don't take the piss, Lars," she murmurs. And then she turns her mock-severe gaze back to the camera. "I mean it, Deep. Stop pointing that thing at me or I'll throw you to the bear myself."

"Yeah, yeah. Empty threats, Keneally." And the image flips back to the distant bear. "Definitely think it looks hungry though." The bear is close enough to send a shiver of unease down Citizen Z's spine. How can they be so blasé about being so close to a predator like that? It can't be more than a hundred yards from the boat.

And just before the vlog ends he hears her voice again off-camera. "Glad I'm not a seal."

He sits back, his heart pounding so hard he can hear his blood pulsing in his ears. He's trying to think straight, through the haze of alcohol and paranoia. It could still a trick, an elaborate plot to get to his system. "Just because you're paranoid," he mutters, but he's thinking of her voice, hoarse and frightened. And that kind of loneliness can't be faked.

"Holy crap." Across the room, the dog gives a questioning whine. "We're not alone, Pup. We're not alone."


	3. Decisions, Decisions

**Chapter Three**  
 **Decisions, Decisions**

As long as she lives, Faye doesn't think she'll ever get used to the feeling of being so close to a predator. But she's been working in and around the Arctic circle for almost five years now; it's not the first time she feels that itching sensation down the back of her neck as the bear skirts the edge of the icecap. She's not sure if it's even seen her, but it's too close. She grips the rifle, tries to slip the fear that's formed a choke-hold around her throat.

She knows logically she's safe on the boat. It can't climb aboard; it can't get to her, and dead bears can't swim.

Stepping back from the side, she lets the muzzle of the rifle drop. She's not going to shoot the bear, not while it poses no actual danger to her. She can't waste the cartridges.

Even so it takes all her willpower to go back inside the cabin. She sets down the rifle, keeping it close. She glances at the radio, wondering if she should try to contact Citizen Z again, but Lars is right; it hasn't made her feel better.

His obvious joy at hearing her voice has filled her with unease. A kind of hollow dizziness has opened up in her gut. He's the first real person she's spoken to in months, and it terrifies her how much she wants to speak to him again.

She bites her lip, trying to think it through, trying to pick her way through the maze of irrationality and bone-deep exhaustion.

Her supply situation is not looking good. There's plenty of water, but she only has enough food for a couple of weeks, and that's with determined rationing. More worryingly, the fuel is running dangerously low. Most of the few and far between facilities near to the shore have already been ransacked, and the thought of heading further inland fills her with a cold dread. But without diesel, the boat will be dead in the water.

She doesn't know what happened at the NSA facility. Lars says they would have all shipped out long ago, and she believes him. But then why would anyone have stayed behind? This Citizen Z guy might not be alone, but she's fairly sure he is. It's always the same voice, always _him_ , with that faint American Southern accent that intensifies when he's upset or on edge. God only knows who he's upset to end up out here in the arse-end of nowhere, but it was pretty clear that he wanted to help. He was almost falling over himself in his eagerness, practically begging her to give him a job to do. She recognises that need to keep busy.

Only...

Only what if she's got this all wrong? She's been wrong before, after all.

She closes her eyes, trying to see it from another angle. The willingness to help could be a way of getting her location, ascertaining whether she's a target or a threat. But Jesus, it's the _NSA_ – she's pretty sure they'd be able to pinpoint the boat's location from her radio signal. She hadn't even thought of that while she was talking to him; shows just how fucked her decision-making process was. So maybe he was trying to keep her talking while he tracked her down.

 _But what choice do I have?_ she wonders. Staying put means death will pretty much be inevitable, but going is a step out into the unknown, and that's assuming she has the strength and resources to survive the journey in the first place.

Or there's the other way. Keppler's way. Much quicker and more decisive. All her problems ended in one fell swoop. There's even a perverse joy in how much it would have enraged Lars.

But what exactly is she afraid of? Dying? The trek across the emptiness? The unknown?

Right now it seems like there's something else to be afraid of: solitude. Every day the voices get stronger. One day, she's pretty sure she'll look over the edge of the boat and they will be there to greet her. Deepak's hand will clamp around her wrist and drag her down into the freezing water.

That's not the way she wants to die.

He's there on the radio when she turns it on. She has no intention of contacting him, but when she hears him say her her name, tears well in her eyes.

"Faye Keneally? If you're there, please get in touch. I need to know you're all right."

 _Don't,_ she hears Lars whisper. _You know it's a mistake, Faye._

Before she can think, before she can let herself listen to him, she snatches up the radio. "I'm here."

"You're okay!" And he sounds desperately happy to hear from her. "Damn, am I glad to hear your voice."

 _It's good to hear yours too,_ she wants to say, but her throat is sore with unshed tears.

"What happened with the polar bear?"

"Well, it couldn't get to me–" she breaks off, blinking as the meaning of his words pierces through the dull fog of exhaustion. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Ms Keneally, Ma'am, I realise that–"

She looks at the window, sees a looming reflection of a man behind her and spins with a soft cry of terror. Nothing there.

On the radio, Citizen Z's voice is high with panic. "Ms Keneally? Ms Keneally, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, mechanically. "Seeing things." She pinches the bridge of her noise, tries to think. "You tracked my signal."

"Actually, no. Not exactly." He sounds sheepish. "I Googled you."

She can't help the involuntary splutter of laughter that bursts free. "You're kidding. You've still got the _internet?_ "

"Some of it. A lot of it's gone dark, but a lot of the larger sites are still up."

"Fucking hell." She sinks down into the seat, laughing again. She'd half-forgotten there was any such thing as the internet.

"It's true then. You _are_ in the Arctic?"

She hesitates, but what's the point in concealing things now. "Yeah."

"That's great!" Then he starts to back-pedal. "I mean not great exactly, not for you. Sucks being in the middle of nowhere, right? Believe me, I know. Especially if you're on your own."

An alarm bell jangles. Faye tries to ignore it. Better to sidestep that one. Turn it back on him.

"You're on your own then?"

It's a moment before he answers. The prelude to a lie, Faye wonders, or does he have suspicions of his own? It's the first time she realises that the lure of a voice on the end of a radio can run both ways and that she might not be the only one nursing a serious case of paranoia. In his case, however, the lure wins out. "Yes." There's a soft noise in the background. "All right," he says to someone in the background. "I haven't forgotten you."

"There _is_ someone there?"

"Just my dog. He turned up one day. I'm glad he did. I'd been on my own for a long time before that."

"How long?"

"Um, just over a year? Maybe. After a while I stopped counting. Seemed kinda pointless."

"A _year_? How are you still..." she hesitates. She was going to say 'sane', but she's not sure he is totally. She's barely gone three months and she has Lars shadowing her and generally making her life a living misery. God only knows what it's like for him.

"I've got my work," he says. "And the mission."

"'Operation Bitemark?'"

"Yeah, I... probably shouldn't have mentioned that."

"Top secret NSA business?"

"I don't know about 'top secret'. It's kind of on a need to know basis. Or maybe it shouldn't be. I don't even know any more. But let's just say I'm working on a mission to find a vaccine for the ZN1 virus, with the end goal of curing the disease, saving the human race and restoring civilisation."

"I see," Faye says carefully. Her mental estimation of Citizen Z's level of sanity has just ticked several notches in the direction of 'batshit'. "Well, you've got to have a goal, right?"

"You don't believe me." He sounds amused. "I can assure you I'm not lying. And I haven't lost my mind. Uh, at least... I don't think so. Ms Keneally, would you mind if I used this radio signal to track your exact location? I know you may not want to be found and I can respect that, but if there's the slightest chance—"

Faye makes a decision. Maybe he's insane, maybe not. Maybe he's just teetering on the brink, but the happiness in his voice at the prospect of finding another human being is hard to dismiss. She's pretty sure now she's going to attempt the journey inland. Refusing him would feel a bit like kicking a puppy.

"Do it," she says. "How long will it take?"

"Uh, not long." She can hear typing in the background. "Holy crap, you're _close_. Yep, there you are."

She glances around. "You can see me?"

"I've pulled up a satellite image of the boat."

"Wow, you weren't kidding about what you can do, were you?" _And maybe,_ she thinks, _that stuff about finding a vaccine wasn't unmitigated bollocks after all._

"Not really." He's trying to sound modest, but isn't doing a terribly good job of it. _He's good,_ she thinks. Whoever he is, whatever he does, he's bloody good at it.

When he speaks again he's shyer. "Ma'am, do you think... do you think you'd be able to make the journey here? My supply situation is good. There's heat, water, enough food to last for a decade. And I might be stranded out here, but I have a connection to the outside world."

She thinks about her own situation. About her dwindling supplies and the empty pit of hunger in her belly. And about Lars, who is back and watching her mockingly. _Death fast or slow._ "I think it's worth a try."

For a while longer, they talk logistics. At first, he talks about coming out to meet her, which she vetoes, citing his mission to save the human race. She's still not certain whether she believes the story or not, but the thought of someone else dying because of her, is more than she thinks she can bear. He tries to argue, but when she asks him some pointed questions it's painfully clear he's spent next to no time outside of his base and he wouldn't know the first thing about trekking across the ice if he tried.

She exaggerates her own experience, but not by much. While she hasn't attempted a trek of this distance on her own before, she's come close with Lars and she's fairly confident she can manage it. She has the skis and the rifle and the pulk, a light fibreglass sledge, to carry the gear she needs. She'll be travelling light. "If you need help," he says, and she can tell he's not happy with the decision. "Anything at all."

"I'll call," she promises, although she knows she won't. If he does come out to meet her, it will only get him killed.

Strange how calm she feels now that the decision is made. The only thing that worries her is the bear. She hasn't seen it since last night, but she doubts it will have gone too far.

Not when there's meat in the vicinity.


	4. Wild Thing

**Chapter Four**

 **Wild Thing**

He's never agonised so much in his life. She radios in the next morning, lets him know that she's about to set off. It's strange but her voice sounds stronger, more decisive than before. She sounds confident, like she knows what she's doing. He supposes she probably does, but it still feels all kinds of wrong, him sitting here, holed up in his Arctic fortress while she's out there risking his life.

"I really should–" he starts, but she cuts him off.

"No. Bad idea, remember? If I do get into trouble, chances are there's nothing you can do. And then we'll both die."

He grimaces, glancing up at the screen where he'd pulled up a still from the vlog, cropped in tight on Faye's face. He had thought it might help, but it hasn't really. All he can think is that she's not as tough as she's trying to sound on the radio; in the image her eyes are soft and happy and smiling.

She's beautiful and he doesn't want her to die.

 _She's stayed alive out there long enough,_ he thinks. No one could have managed that if they're not good at it. "How long do you think it'll take you?"

"Maybe nine or ten days," she says, and he bites his lower lip. _Ten days? "_ Maybe less if I'm lucky." There's a sardonic note in her voice that suggests she isn't expecting to be lucky.

He swallows. "I really do mean it, Faye. If you need help, I'm here. And I will come. You just have to call."

* * *

After that, it's almost impossible to concentrate on his work. He makes a few half-hearted attempts to contact Warren and the others, spends some time checking in with his other contacts, but he's just filling time and he knows it. He keeps thinking about Faye Keneally, isolated and alone, a tiny speck of life surrounded by an expanse of ice.

After he gets sick of pacing the halls, he circles up to the door and ventures outside to watch the horizon as if he might be able to see her coming.

It's not that he hasn't felt helpless before. But this feels wrong. It's not like Warren's group – when they're in trouble there's nothing he can do except help from afar, offering guidance, assisting where he can. Much as he'd like to, he can't just pop over to the US to lend a hand.

But Faye Keneally is so _close_. Close enough that he could ignore her arguments and common sense, and trek out into the wastes to see whether he can help. Staying here like this, when she's on her own out there is eating away at him.

And the kicker is, she's right. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He doesn't know the first thing about the Arctic. All he knows is computers. He'd end up freezing to death, and she'd probably get killed trying to rescue his sorry ass. She's _right._

But it doesn't make him feel any less guilty.

He heads inside, because the cold is making things worse. If only Delta-X-Ray would get in touch... dump their problems on him. Something he can use to distract himself, to remind himself that he is responsible for keeping Murphy alive. If he can save Murphy sometime in the next couple of days or get the group out of a tight spot, then it will have been worth it. So he stares at the screens, searching for a sign, searching for anything that he can use.

Only there's nothing, and after a while he starts to think about Faye and how she hasn't checked in either. She doesn't respond to his radio messages. By nightfall, guilt and worry have tightened into a knot in his gut. Still he keeps trying, wondering if she's changed her mind. He pulls up the image of the boat on the satellite, enlarges it as much as he can. It's cold, dead in the water.

It hurts, but he stops calling over night, knowing there's no way he can help. He stays up as late as he can, catches himself falling asleep, doses himself with as many caffeine tablets as his system can tolerate. If she calls, he needs to be there.

She doesn't call. Nor does Delta-X-Ray.

"I should have gone, Dog," he says. "Who cares what she said, I should have gone to meet her." The dog whines in reply.

Citizen Z keeps trying, but hope is starting to slip away, and on the thirteenth day of no contact, he knows in his gut that Faye Keneally is dead and that it is his fault.

* * *

He snaps awake, not sure what it is that's woken him, bleary from the handful of vodka miniatures he'd drank to quiet the voices of blame in his head. They always get louder when there's nothing for him to do. It takes a few moments for the sound of the perimeter alarm to worm its way through his skull.

He pulls up the camera feed, flicks through the pictures until–

 _Holy shit._

It's a human figure, featureless and unrecognisable in Polar gear, slumped on the snow. It's her. He's sure it is. He spins and sprints for the exit, turns back when he realises he's forgotten his gun.

He thumps the button to open the metal doors with more force than necessary, runs around the snail-curve of the corridor and up towards the disconcertingly bright, eye-searing whiteness of the midnight sun. His breath mists in the cold, the crunching of the snow under his unlaced boots sounding too loud in the snow-muffled silence. He circles around the side of the building, and the body is there, slumped in the snow, a loaded sledge behind her.

"Ms Keneally?" he calls, but she doesn't respond. Doesn't even move. _She's already dead,_ he thinks with dawning horror, and he shifts his grip on the gun. Because if she's turned...

"She hasn't turned," he tells himself, and forces himself onwards. He only hesitates again when he sees the arm of her jacket, soaked through blood.

He hasn't been this scared since he rescued the dog from the other husky, the dead one, but he grips her jacket, rolls her over, certain that any minute now her eyes will flick open and she'll lunge at him.

She groans and he flinches back, then sags with relief. She's alive. "Oh, thank God," he mutters, and cups her face. "Faye? Faye Keneally? Ma'am?"

She grimaces, trying to twist out of his grasp. Her eyes flutter open, stare up at him with dull confusion. "What–"

And he can't help it, he's grinning now, so widely his cheeks are hurting, because she's the first living person he's seen in what seems like forever. "Come on," he says. "let's get you inside."

He helps her up, trying not to look too closely at the blood on her jacket. He'll worry about that later; right now all he wants to do is get her inside in the warm. He snags the rifle she's left lying on the ground and he talks as they go, aware that he's babbling and that she's too dazed and exhausted to be taking in what he's saying, but somehow he can't stop the words from bubbling up.

"I can't believe you made it," he says, as he helps her onto a chair. "And you're real. Not that I thought you weren't, but..." He looks at the blood on her jacket again. He can't ignore it any longer.

"Are you hurt? Were you bitten?"

She blinks slowly, not taking his meaning. "'Bitten,'" she repeats and then she follows his gaze. She looks at the blood as if she has no idea what it's doing there, and then she starts, shaking herself out of it. "It's not mine."

"Zombie?"

She seems to be coming to. She glances at him, her eyes oddly flat, her mouth set in a hard line. "Polar bear,"she says, as if that answers everything. Then she looks around, her gaze sweeping the room.

"Are you hungry? Stupid question. Of course you're hungry. Thirsty too, I'll bet. Wait here. I'll get you something."

By the time he's returned, she's shrugged off her parka and several layers of woollen clothing. The dog has found her and she's scratching at his neck, mumbling something into his fur. As he steps into the room, her gaze snaps up, her shoulders tensing as she watches him come closer, her eyes wary and mistrustful.

He hesitates, because he hadn't been prepared for her appearance. She's gaunt and filthy: her skin encrusted with grime, her hair matted and falling around her face in clumps. If he hadn't known it was her, he would never have believed this was the same woman from the video.

He sets the tray down on the table and sits, no longer trusting himself to speak. His certainty that she's real is starting to wane, and he's doubting himself all over again. He's brought her one of the more palatable MREs, although that isn't saying much, a bottle of water, and a steaming mug of Earl Grey.

She edges closer, but not as quickly as the dog. Citizen Z rises to usher him away, and is dismayed when Faye jerks away. He sits down, fighting to keep the disappointment from showing on his face. _It's not her fault. God only knows what she's been through. She's probably in shock._

She circles around the edge of the table, keeping it between them, and when he sits back down, she slips carefully into the seat, watching him like a feral animal. She picks at the MRE for a moment or two, then starts to eat. To cover his discomfiture, he starts to talk again.

"I could cook you a steak if you like," he offers. "I know the MREs aren't great, but–"

"This is fine. Thank you," she says.

"Tea?" he pushes the mug towards her. She shakes her head/

"I can make you a coffee."

"No, please don't. I'm fine with water for the moment. Thank you."

He wishes she'd stop thanking him. It sounds so stiff and formal. "I'm really glad you made it here. When I didn't hear from you, I thought..."

"The radio broke when the polar bear attacked me." She slips the dog a sliver of meat and leans back. He has the uncomfortable feeling that she's trying to put more distance between them.

He shows her to one of the empty dorms, before bringing her a t-shirt and sweatpants to sleep in.

She thanks him again, still as stiff and formal as before, and stands with the clothes in her arms until he leaves, closing the door behind him. He hesitates in the corridor, trying to dispel the image of her slipping out of her thermal layers and into his clothes, and then, just as he's about to walk away, he hears the scrape of something heavy being pushed against the door.

It almost feels like she's a different person to the woman he spoke to on the radio, and again he feels that stirring of unease. But she's been fifteen days in the wilderness, hunted by bears, possibly close to death. She'll be in shock.

Things will be different in the morning. Damn it, he hopes so. In the control room, he pauses, staring at the image of her on his screen. She's smiling there, and so far he hasn't seen her smile once. Not that he blames her. With a sigh, he shuts it down. If she sees that and realises that he's gone into a bit more detail than just Googling her name on the internet, things might get awkward.

She seems frightened enough as it is.

That night, he wakes to the sound of her screaming. He rolls out of bed and stops in the corridor outside her room. Her screams have stopped, but he can hear her crying softly. Whispering to herself.

Just a bad dream. He's had his share of those, but the worst is over. He's seen the way she looks at him, and he knows if he tries to goes in she won't welcome his presence. He'll just make things worse.

Citizen Z drops his hand from the door and moves back down the corridor as quietly as he can telling himself that things will be better in the morning.

But things aren't better in the morning; they're _worse_.

For the next two weeks he barely sees her. She spends most of her time holed up in her room or exploring the base, pacing the confines of her cage like a tiger in the zoo.

And she's avoiding him. If he enters a room she's in, she'll circle away from him, usually making for the nearest door. Any hopeful fantasies he might have nurtured of the two of them becoming friends, maybe even _more_ than friends, crumble like ash in his mouth.

It's weird as hell, because no one's ever been _afraid_ of him before. He's possibly the least threatening person he's ever known.

He does his best to make inroads, leaving food and hot drinks outside her bedroom door. It vanishes, and he finds the wrappers in the garbage and the mugs in the kitchen neatly washed, so at least he knows she's eating.

She's not the company he's hoping for, but she's scared and in shock; he just needs to give her some time to recover. Maybe even a _lot_ of time, but that's one thing he's got in abundance.

The dog has started sleeping in her bed most nights, and although it gives him hope that she's not beyond reach, it means that his nights are a lot lonelier without the weight and warmth of the husky lying beside him.

He figures she needs the dog more; she wakes up screaming most nights, and on the few times when he sees her close up, he sees that her eyes are sunken and hollow, underscored by shadows. Sometimes he catches her talking to herself, and not the low mumble of the chronically lonely, but one half of a conversation, which she cuts short the moment she realises he's there.

He tries not to listen, because he tells himself it doesn't matter; he doesn't think she's insane, but he still catches fragments: "Yes, I know but–", "Don't, I can't–" And then, vehemently, as he walks into the kitchen without realising she's in there: "Leave me alone!"

"I'm sorry," he says in dismay, because the last thing he wants to do is upset her, but she just sits at the table staring at him, like she can't figure out who he is or why he's there. He was wrong, he realises; she hadn't been talking to him at all, and his gaze drops to the empty chair at the table, the one that's been pushed out a little, like someone is sitting there.

A shiver prickles up the back of his neck. He's a sceptic. He doesn't believe in ghosts. But let's face it, just a few years ago he wouldn't have believed in zombies either.

Faye's already on her feet, edging toward the door. Suddenly weary, Citizen Z sighs, holding up his hands in the universal gesture of 'I mean no harm'. "I'll go," he says, wondering how much longer this is going to go on. "Don't worry, Ms Keneally."

At the sound of her name she stops, darts a suspicious glance at him.

Despite everything, he's still glad she's here.

In the doorway he looks back at her. She's still watching with a mistrustful expression. He swallows hard, the words coming before he can stop them. "I know you're scared, Ms Keneally. But you're safe here. I... I wouldn't hurt you. I understand if you don't trust me, but..." He swallows, his throat aching with the threat of tears. He's been sleeping badly himself lately. Without the dog keeping him company in bed, the dark things that skirt the outlying shadows of his dreams are creeping closer. "I've been on my own a long time. I'd really like someone to talk to."

And now he can't stop the tears from coming. He can't read her expression. He scrunches his face up, presses his clenched fists against his cheeks. He doesn't want her to see him crying, so he leaves, hurrying down the corridor.

He doesn't look back.


	5. Over the Threshold

**[A/N: Thanks for reading this far. If you're enjoying it, I'd really love it if you left me a review.]**

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 **Over the Threshold**

Faye hesitates at the entrance to the control room, trying to summon up the courage to step inside and meet the man who calls himself Citizen Z. Since he had spoken to her in the kitchen, practically begged her to trust him, she hasn't been able to stop thinking about him. He'd been close to tears, and even through the haze of fear and mindless, animal panic she'd recognised his pain, his need for company. It was the first time she'd seen him as a person, rather than a potential threat.

Because his pain is her fault. By the way she's continued to avoiding him, even though by now she's fairly certain he means her no harm. Even though he's the only person she's seen in three months.

She's not even sure how much time has passed since she arrived. It's been a while, maybe a few weeks, but nothing has happened. No one has hurt her.

There are no soldiers hiding in the back rooms, waiting for her to let her guard down.

She's checked. Repeatedly.

There's no one but him and the dog.

Inside she can hear him typing rapidly, the low murmur of his voice as he mutters something to himself. She takes a breath.

 _Come on, Faye. You can do this._

She walks forwards, passes by the American flag draped on the wall, and into the dark bunker-like room. It's a mess, stacked haphazardly with crates and boxes of files, but her eyes are drawn straight to the bank of screens and the man sitting in front of them.

Only maybe 'man' isn't quite accurate. She'd suspected he was young, but he might easily pass for seventeen. He's tall, but skinny as a rake, with odd features and a brown shock of hair that he clearly cuts himself.

 _He's just a kid,_ she thinks dizzily, only then the dog whines, he looks up and she realises he's older than he looks. Younger than her, still, but maybe not by that much. Early twenties, she'd guess, but it's hard to tell. The apocalypse has aged him, etched lines of weariness around his eyes.

When he sees her his face lights up in a way that makes her feel deeply ashamed.

He takes off the headset and makes a move towards her. He stops before he takes more than a couple of steps, because she's taken an involuntary step back out into the corridor.

His smile slips, and, if his look of happiness made her feel ashamed, the brief expression of dismay that crosses his face makes her want to cry. But he catches himself, and plasters the smile back on, wider than before. He takes a step backwards and then another, and as if there's a cord between them, Faye allows herself to be drawn into the room.

"You're looking better," he says, cautiously.

"I feel better," she starts to say, but her throat is dry and she can't quite get the words out. She swallows, tries again. "I am better."

"Want some coffee?" he suggests. She hesitates, still feeling edgy, but he's been nothing but kind to her so far. There's been nothing to make her think she has anything to fear from him.

"That sounds good. Thank you." And she does her best not to jerk away from him as he passes her, even though every muscle in her body is screaming at her to run. Instead she kneels beside the husky to scratch behind his ears until Citizen Z returns. The dog licks her face, and it lends her strength.

* * *

As it turns out coffee is exactly what she needed. They sit opposite one another either side of a metal table, which makes her feel a little safer. Good to have something between them. It's not the best instant coffee she's tasted in her life, and it has the slightly sickly tang of powdered milk, but it's hot and strong and packed with caffeine. He's brought her a pastry too, packaged in a plastic wrapper, and she devours it, ignoring the plaintive look from the dog.

"Be good," Citizen Z says, cuffing the husky good-naturedly. "She might think I don't feed you."

The dog watches intently as every crumb disappears and then drops to the ground with a huff.

"Sorry, Dog," Faye says. "Maybe next time. What's his name?" she asks, and seconds later she realises she doesn't know his name either. "And... yours too, I guess."

A strange expression crosses his face.

 _He doesn't want to tell me,_ she thinks. He looks younger suddenly, vulnerable and frightened, and because she can't bear to look at him she looks at the dog instead. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay. I haven't gone by it in a while." And even then he hesitates, biting at his lower lip. "It's, uh... Simon. Simon Cruller. The dog doesn't really have a name. Yet." And then he slowly extends his hand.

Despite her apprehension and the fear that she just can't shake, Faye is amused. He's treating her like a wild animal he needs to befriend. Maybe that's not so far from the truth. "I'm starting to feel like White Fang," she says, and not knowing if he gets the reference or not, she reaches out and shakes his hand. She is rewarded by a shy smile of such pure happiness that she finds herself involuntarily smiling back.

She has another coffee and he makes himself a tea, and they drink in an awkward, but somehow companionable silence, trying not to look at one another.

"I could give you the tour," he suggests after a while. "I know you've probably seen most of it already, but..." He trails off, biting his lower lip. "Unless you wanted to have a shower first..."

She blinks. "I'm sorry. Did you say shower? You have working showers?"

"Um, yes. We're the NSA. We have showers." He's laughing at the look of shock on her face. "You'd like a shower first then?"

"I never thought I'd have a shower again," she says, and then she can't help it. She's laughing herself. Because, fucking hell, how out of it has she been? She'd even seen the shower rooms as part of her exploration of the base, but at the time it didn't register; she was too busy searching for something that might be a threat to her. And then she's trying to think how long it's been since she had a decent wash, something other than a wipe down with a wet cloth and a scant sliver of soap.

"I'm–" She stops, because she can't think of a polite way to say that she's absolutely fucking filthy, covered in God knows how many months of grime and sweat.

"It's the little things you miss, right?" he says. "C'mon, I'll fetch you a towel."

She hesitates, but the thought of a shower is too tempting to resist. She stands up, edges around the far side of the table, still unable to fully trust him.

* * *

Not only does the shower work, the water is steaming hot. The pressure isn't great, but it's the closest she's been to luxury in longer than she can remember, and she stands under the water for a long time, letting it stream down over her itching scalp before she even thinks about getting herself clean. Where the water puddles on the tiled floor it's black with grime. Her hair is matted and it takes a couple of shampoo applications before the water finally runs clear, and she scrubs herself until her skin is pink and glistening.

She glances out of the cubicle cautiously before she steps out and reaches for the towel. For the first time she takes a look at herself in the mirror, and she draws in a breath at how thin and gaunt she's become. Somehow she didn't notice under all the dirt, and it's been a while since she's seen herself naked.

She dresses again, pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of clean combats that he's lent her. In a million years she would never have expected them to fit, but she's lost so much weight in the past year that they do right up, and even sit a little loosely on her hips.

He's waiting for her in the control room, and as she enters she finds that the shower has cleared away the last remnants of her fear. She still feels a little edgy around him, but he's so skinny she's pretty sure she could fight him off if it came down to it. _Unless he has a gun_ , she thinks, and immediately regrets it. Thing is, he probably _does_ have a gun.

 _Yeah and I have my rifle,_ she thinks grimly. She forces herself to look at him, at his friendly, hopeful smile. _He's no threat to me._

"Feeling better?" he asks.

She spreads her hands. " _So_ much better. Thank you, Simon."

He flinches when she says his name, then looks away flushing as if he hopes she hasn't noticed. "Ready for the tour?"

* * *

She hadn't really thought about it before, but when they reach the hanger, machinery lining along the walls, banks of computers and god knows what else, she finds herself watching him. This is a facility built for an army, and he's just one man, dwarfed by the scale of it.

"This is where I used to play golf," he's telling her. "I don't any more."

"Why not?"

He gives her a look, part wry and part embarrassed. "Turns out it's not a good idea to hit hard balls at machinery." It seems like he wants to say something else, but then he looks away.

"Why _are_ you here?" she asks finally. "Why just you?"

He's still not looking at her, staring sadly at the banks of machines. "It wasn't a good time. Things were... panicked. We were all set to ship out, but there was something I had to do, something Operation Bitemark related. By the time I was ready to go, it was too late. They'd gone."

She draws in a breath. "They just _left_ you?"

He nods, not meeting her eyes. "Turns out I was the lucky one. The plane crashed on take-off. If I hadn't stayed behind, I'd be dead too."

"That's awful."

He shifts, uncomfortable with her pity. "That's the apocalypse for you."

"And you've really been alone all this time?"

He darts a cautious questioning look at her. The smile is returning to his lips. "Yeah, but not any more. You were alone too, huh?"

She hesitates, but there's no point lying now. "Not for nearly as long as you. Three months or so. Give or take." And then she swallows because she's thinking about Lars and the burnt-out Inuit settlement. The zombie they'd found there.

The _ice-axe_.

"Still a long time," he says, watching her carefully.

She's about to smile back when she senses a flitting shadow in the corner of her eye. _You're not actually going to trust him, are you, Faye?_

She takes a breath, refusing to let her gaze so much as dart in his direction. Because he's not there. And she doesn't need to talk to herself any more.


	6. Old Wounds

**[Bit of a slow burn, this one. We're starting to get to the meat of it though. I really hope you're enjoying it, and if you are, I'd really love a review.]**

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

 **Old Wounds**

On the whole, Citizen Z figures today hasn't gone too badly. Yes, she's on edge, and yes, she's clearly nervous, but he's sure there have been moments where she's forgotten her fear, one or two times when he thought she might even be about to smile. And now that she's clean she looks a lot more comfortable.

 _Maybe this could work,_ he thinks, as he runs through the supply situation. Even though every time she says his name he can't help wincing. He hasn't had someone call him by his name in more than a year. No one real at any rate. Hallucinations don't count.

The tour itself has raised some painful memories of the Yuri-incident, but he's already taken a close look at the more important machines, particularly the air and water filters. As far as he can tell, they're still working fine. He's sure she's real.

Pretty sure.

It's the control room that really captures her interest. As much as he's come to hate the facility over the months and months of solitude, this room is his haven, his link to the outside world, and God help him, he's _proud_ as he shows it to her and sees the astonishment on her face at the bank of monitors, his window on the world. The dog slinks in and drops down on the pile of blankets that serves as a dog-bed.

"So this is what you do?" she says, peering at the monitors in turn. "Sit here and oversee?"

"I do what I can." He edges forwards, not wanting to upset her by coming too close too quickly. "I watch and I monitor and if someone needs help, I try to help them."

She shoots a glance at him and he stops. "This is unbelievable. I never realised the NSA had so much reach."

He tries for a modest smile. "It's not technically all legit," he admits. "I've hacked a few mainframes, satellites. If anything's still on the grid, I can access it. And you'd be surprised at how much _is_ still on the grid. I figured the more knowledge I have, the more likely it is I can help people..." He trails off because he doesn't think she's listening any more. She's staring at one of the monitors, the one that's showing satellite footage of Midwest America, the vast flash-mob of Zs that he thinks of as the zunami.

"Oh my God." She reaches out a trembling finger, traces the screen with the lightest touch, then turns her head to look at him. "Are they all...?" He nods. "How many?"

"I haven't counted. It's edging towards a million plus. Maybe more. They seem to group together like a flock of birds."

Now that gets her attention. "Is this recording? I mean are you able to show me more footage of this?" Her eyes are bright, shining with sudden energy. It's the first time she's looked at him without even the faintest trace of wary apprehension in her eyes, and Simon is suddenly desperate to keep that look away just a little bit longer.

"Are you _trying_ to insult me?" He leans past her, taps at the keyboard, clicks with the mouse, and suddenly she's next to him, pressing closer than he'd expected and it's not something he's ready for. His breath catches in this throat, but she doesn't even notice.

"Can you zoom out?"

He does so with a click, glancing up at her, at the curve of her throat and the set of her jaw. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth, and her hair is drying frizzy from the shower, and the t-shirt he lent her is really too tight on her body, clinging tightly to her–

He looks away quickly. "I'll set you up a screen of your own," he says. Somewhere across the room.

Somewhere where he won't be able to smell the soap on her skin or where she won't be able to brush against him accidentally.

And he does, working fast. He puts her across the room, close enough that they can talk, but not _too_ close. Better for them both if he keeps his distance for the moment.

* * *

She's lost for hours, the glow of the screen reflecting on her face as she scans the hours of accumulated footage. Citizen Z tries not to watch, but even so his gaze keeps drawing back to her.

He's almost forgotten what it felt like, the early days when he realised the world was falling apart before his eyes. She's been even more isolated than him. This is all new to her, and seeing the sadness in her eyes, he relives it all over again.

Finally he brings her a cup of coffee and she stops and stretches, arching her shoulders back, pushing her chest out. He fixes his gaze on the screen, mouth dry. "Thoughts?"

She twists her mouth in a wry grimace. "Lots of thoughts. I'm just not sure any of them are going to be particularly useful." She blows thoughtfully on her coffee. "It's so strange watching them. I kept thinking of them as animals, and then I'd suddenly remember that every one of those little white specks used to be a person, with a life, family, friends. We're so isolated out here. I can't have seen more than... what, ten zombies in the last year? Maybe not even that. Human ones at any rate. But seeing that horde, the sheer _scale_ of it..." She trails off, her voice small and frightened.

"I know. All those people, all those lives." He clenches his fists, suddenly angry. "Screw this apocalypse."

"Fuck it to hell and back," she agrees, and then they're both laughing, because otherwise they'd be crying, and although there's no real humour in it, it does help a little.

"Come on," he tells her. "Let's get some food." And because he wants her to think there's hope, he adds, "I think it's probably time to tell you about Operation Bitemark."

Some of her wariness has returned by the time they sit down to eat, but either it's eased off a bit or she's getting better at hiding it. Figuring it's about time to celebrate, he even digs out one of the few bottles of wine from the stores – he's not much of a wine drinker, but it seems more civilised than vodka or whisky miniatures. Although she watches him open and pour it carefully she actually drinks it, sipping slowly. She refuses top-ups though, placing her hand firmly over the top of the mug when he offers.

She listens carefully as he sketches out the details and a brief history, how a man named Murphy 'volunteered' to help test a series of vaccines and became the only human to be immune to zombie bites, something which he found out the hard way. And how Lieutenant Hammond of the Delta-X-Ray task force found himself saddled with the job of protecting him, only to finally buy it at the sharp teeth of a Z baby.

Here Faye interrupts. "Wait, when you say 'baby'..."

"Yeah. Not sure I believe that bit either. But that's what they told me. This group seem to know what they're doing though. He's in good hands." _He hopes._ The truth is that now that the group has lost Garnett, he has no idea what will happen to the mission.

"Where are they now?"

"Last I heard they were in Nebraska. Wish they'd drop me a message. It's killing me not knowing how they're getting on. Whether they're all... y'know."

"So it's just a matter of getting this Murphy chap to California? What then?"

He shifts uneasily on his seat. She has a way of getting right to the point. It's a good question and one he doesn't entirely know the answer to. Dr Merch is still in the wind, and even assuming he does find her in time, assuming the group are still alive and the mission is a go, there's no certainty that the good doctor will be able to make a vaccine.

"One step at a time," he says, and Faye nods.

"Fair enough." She pauses, thinking. "There is something, actually. What you said about them behaving about a flock of birds. I think you're right. It's like they all sharing one instinct, and with no one leader. If one changes direction, the others around it change too. Just like a flock of starlings evading a predator. Only in the zombie's case they're the predator." She grimaces. "Anyway, I ask myself, what else might they have in common with birds?"

"You think they could be migrating."

"Well, maybe." She sips the wine, looking thoughtful. "It's probably a long shot, but it does raise some interesting questions."

"Like?"

"Well, migration is something that can be predicted. And if we can predict an animal's behaviour in a given situation–"

"Then we can plan around them. Use that knowledge to survive."

"Exactly. And maybe the same is true with zombies." But she's faltering a little; the doubt is starting to creep in. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just talking out of my arse."

"It's worth a try," he tells her. "If you're right, it could be a game-changer."

She grunts, sips her wine. "Well, it's something to do."

"I could do with the help. I think it's probably a good idea if you keep analysing the Z's behaviour. Anything you learn could potentially prove useful. Maybe give us a shot." More importantly, it will keep her busy, and he knows the importance of keeping busy. And he likes the idea of her working alongside him in the control room. The two of them tapping away like co-workers. Making each other hot drinks and gossiping by the water cooler. Admittedly, he doesn't have a water cooler, but still...

"Happy to help." She pauses, her gaze lingering on a spot somewhere behind his left shoulder.

Citizen Z fights the urge to glance around to see what she's looking at. She grunts, drops her gaze to the wine swirling in her glass. "I wouldn't get your hopes up though."

"Why not?" His voice is more adversarial than he'd intended. "What else do we do if we can't hope for something better? I thought I was alone in the Arctic. I'm not. I was sure you'd died on the journey here. You didn't. So why not hope for something better if it gives us the strength to strive for it? If there's even a chance..." He trails off, shrugging, then takes the wine and tops up his mug.

To his surprise and pleasure, she holds out hers for more.

"Probably shouldn't let you drink it all," she says in explanation. "I think you've had more than enough already."

"I think you're probably right." He sips, searching for another topic of conversation. He's sick and tired of talking about the damn apocalypse. "So, polar bears, huh? Seen many of those?"

"Quite a few. More than zombies, funnily enough, given that we're supposed to be smack in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. I haven't seen a living one in a long time though."

He nods. "Makes sense all the predators'd turn first."

"This one followed me from the boat, I think. It's a weird sensation, being hunted." And again her eyes flick to a spot somewhere behind him. When she sips her wine, He risks a surreptitious glance behind. _Nothing there._

"What happened?"

She shrugs as if there's nothing more to tell. "I shot it."

"' _Shot it?_ '" He laughs. "Wait, you single-handedly shot and killed a Z polar bear without so much as blinking?"

"Um, yes? I mean, I might have blinked a _bit_..."

"And you're scared of _me?_ Seriously? Look at me." For a moment he thinks he's gone too far, then she's laughing too, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that makes his heart skip.

"I take your point. I am pretty badass, huh?"

"I think anyone who can hold their ground against one of the most dangerous predators on Earth can legitimately call themselves a badass, yeah. Especially when that predator is also a freaking Z." It's a beautiful moment, he thinks, made all the more special by the way she responds to his proffered fist-bump. Smiling and uncertain, like she's not quite certain she's doing it right.

Damn, it's good to have company. The MRE seems to taste marginally better than chewing on cardboard, and the wine has given him a pleasant buzz. Even the inevitable silences are starting to feel less awkward and more companionable by the moment, and he finds himself thinking about the way she said 'badass', her British accent momentarily taking on an American drawl not entirely unlike his own.

"I'm not scared of you, Simon," she says, and he shivers at the sound of his name on her lips. "Not really. It's just... it's been a long time since I've met anyone else and I've been through a lot."

"I know. I get it. But I can't tell you how happy I am to see another person after so long. I wouldn't jeopardise that."

"Give me time," she says.

"Time. One thing we've got plenty of." He sighs. "Well, you know why I'm out here. What about you?"

"Just lucky, I suppose." She tilts back her chair. "We were all set to head home, got stuck in Spitsbergen when Westminster burned and the planes were grounded. Nothing to do but huddle around a TV in the airport and watch the news. There wasn't _much_ footage of England, but it was enough. You remember what it was like back then?"

He nods. He remembers only too well, how quickly everything crumbled from confidence, to fear, to wrenching panic.

"We stayed in Longyearbyen for a while, but there were too many people there really. We heard rumours about some of the other settlements in the area. And when things started going bad.." She trails off. Shrugs. "Well, getting back on the boat seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I can't believe how long you survived out there. Weren't you tempted to head south when things calmed down?"

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "You mean when everyone died?" He grimaces, but she's right. She's silent for a long time. "We discussed it," she says, and he gets the feeling there's so much that she's holding back. She clinks her nails on her wine glass. "The thing is... the Arctic... Have you been out there? I mean properly?"

He shakes his head "Only around the base. And not for long. Not exactly built for the cold."

When she speaks again, her voice sounds dreamy. "It gets into your bones if you let it. When I'm out there it feels like nothing else matters, like the rest of the world doesn't even exist. I can close my eyes and pretend that all the mess, all the slaughter, is just a dream. At least, that's how it felt at first."

"And then?" he asks.

"It couldn't last. But just for a little while..."

"What's it like out there?" he asks, and she starts to talk. She talks about frozen waterfalls, and icebergs gleaming with pools of meltwater as blue as a summer sky, of ancient glaciers and a landscape that's eternal and ever-shifting, primal throwback to a version of Earth that's eons old. He could listen to her talk forever, especially if he gets to watch her at the same time, her eyes heavy lidded, just a little bit drunk.

When she's done, she knocks back the rest of the wine, and he feels the silence stretching out between them. He hesitates, then asks, "And the others on the boat?"

Her gaze flits to him, then away. She shakes her head. "I'm done talking," she says, and again he has that sensation that she's skirting the truth. "It's your turn. Tell me about you."

"What do you wanna know?"

She shrugs, so he starts to talk. He tells her about his childhood as a military brat, never staying in one place for long. He tells her about his mother, who before everything went to hell, was widowed and living back in Tennessee, calling him every other day. He tells her about his older brother Matthew, killed by an IED in Iraq when Citizen Z was nine and not called Citizen Z, only then he falters, because he's remembering Matty's funeral, the sleek, gleaming coffin draped with the American flag. He's remembering how he flinched at the fury of the gun salute, fighting the urge to cover his ears because he'd always hated guns, and how his mom had placed her hand on his shoulder, steadying him, soothing him, while his father looked on with a blank, dead eyed expression.

His mother. Always there to temper his father's disappointment in his second son, who wasn't more like him, more like Matty, who'd left behind a wife and a baby daughter.

He doesn't know how his mother died. He only knows that she is dead. She has to be. And maybe someone has given her mercy, or maybe she's still out there, shambling around the South in a horde of her own. She always did make friends easily.

He wonders how many people she's killed, his beautiful, gentle mother, who couldn't even bear to kill spiders, who'd never once judged him for not being more like his brother, who made it clear that no matter what, she would always be proud of him, and he wants to weep.

He hasn't thought about his family in a long time. It's opened up an old wound inside him, one he thought had just about scabbed over.

"Simon..." Faye breaks off, seeing the involuntary wince of pain that crosses his face. She hesitates. "Would you rather I didn't call you that?"

"No," he says, quickly, and he's surprised by by fervently he means it. "It's just strange hearing it. I gotta get used to it, that's all."

* * *

That night they play a couple of games of pool in the rec-room, soft blues in the background. They finish off the bottle of wine. He suggests opening another because he wants to keep drinking, partly to chase away the ghosts and partly because he doesn't want this night to end, but Faye shakes her head. "Better not. I think it's time for me to head to bed."

She's probably right, but he feels the sting of disappointment anyway. He doesn't want her to leave; he wants her to stay, to keep talking, because inside him has sparked the irrational fear that when he wakes in the morning she won't be there, that she'll have melted away into the snow.

And maybe she feels something similar because she lingers in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself. She glances back at him, just for a moment, and then she's gone.


	7. Stray

**Chapter Seven  
Stray**

 _I told you so,_ Lars says. He's lying on the top bunk. For the last hour she's been listening to him breathe. She can't see him, but she knows he's there. _Didn't I tell you this wouldn't make you feel better? Has it helped, Faye?  
_

"Yes," she whispers, but she doesn't know whether it's true or not. Her whole future had stretched out before her, bleak and frostbitten and filled with terror. There's a headache pulsing behind her eyes, courtesy of the half bottle of wine she'd drunk the night before. And she'd dreamed about the zombie in the Inuit settlement, only this time the ice-axe is in her hands, not Lars's.

 _I told you he was insane,_ Lars said. _This Citizen Z._

She laughs, a cold hollow sound. "He's saner than I am. Look at me. Talking to a dead man."

 _But you see it, don't you? The way he looks at you. Like you're a meal and he hasn't eaten in a week._

"Fuck off, Lars."

As she leaves for the shower room, she feels him watching her. Part of her wants to turn to look at him; on the boat, he knew all the places to hide from her, no wonder she could never find him when she went looking, but he's a stranger here, just like her. He won't be able to hide.

 _You know how insane that sounds, right?_

She doesn't look around.

The shower helps. She rinses off, promising herself she'll never take the feeling of being clean for granted again. She steps carefully out onto the cold tiled floor, only briefly meeting the gaze of her reflection in the mirror.

 _Haunted,_ she thinks. _That's the word for it._ She dries herself off briefly, then dresses again and heads back to her room.

If Lars ever was there, he's gone now.

She picks out some clean clothes that Simon has left for her. He's laundered her things, and pressed them as neatly as possibly, given the ragged state they're in. They may smell of generic washing powder, but they're clean and she feels a rush of gratitude to him.

He's been nothing but patient with her, so she's surprised when she finds her steps slowing involuntarily as she nears the control room. And she finds she's not scared exactly; she's shy.

"Get it together," she mutters, and forces herself to continue inside.

He's at the bank of screens as she knew he would be, talking on the radio. As she draws closer, the dog gives a whine of greeting, and Simon glances back. "You're up!"

The radio crackles. "Come again, Northern Light?"

"Ah, sorry, Delta-X-Ray. Got a bit distracted there. Hold on." He turns back to Faye, holding up a finger to indicate he won't be a minute, and she sees that he's smiling, eyes bright.

She waggles a hand at her mouth in a drinky-drinky motion, and he nods eagerly, before returning to the radio. "What's the status of the package?"

She boils the kettle, makes them both a drink. It gives her time to settle her thumping heart and think things through. So that's Operation Bitemark. Unless he's under the grip of a delusion more elaborate than she realises. But fuck it, she's tired of cynicism.

 _Poor guy,_ she thinks. _He deserves better company than me._

"Good news?" she asks as she returns to the control room.

"Well, they're alive," he says. "They survived the zunami. And Murphy's in one piece. So good news. I'll take that." He pauses. "How are you doing?"

"Better." She scratches her cheek. " _Much_ better, thank you. Tough as nails, me."

"I can see that." His gaze is too tender; it's making her uncomfortable again, and she remembers what Lars said. _You see it don't you. The way he looks at you._

Like things aren't awkward enough already, she thinks, and immediately feels guilty. He's been nothing but kind to her, and damn it, she _likes_ him.

She tries to lose herself in the movement of the massive zombie horde. But she's tired and more fragile than she wants to admit, and it's hard to keep herself detached. Besides, the more she watches, the less faith she has in her migration theory. The zombies do seem to be following the heat, but their movement is too erratic, and she doubts it's something they will ever be able to predict with any degree of certainty.

All it takes is for one zombie on the outskirts to be distracted, and just like a flock of birds the rest will follow. This is instinct of a sort, but it's random, unpredictable.

Frustratingly, she knows she's missing something. Somewhere in the hours of footage, she's spotted something which has lodged in her brain. Only she can't quite figure out what it is and it's driving her crazy, that tip-of-the-tongue sensation. It's there; she knows it is.

She just has to keep looking.

When Simon breaks to get some lunch, she remains intent on the screen. She's so close, she can feel it.

Only then Simon's workstation starts bleeping. She hesitates, glancing at the entrance, then stands up and crosses to his desk, not knowing what to do. The words 'Incoming transmission' is flashing at her, urgently, and she hooks his headset over her head.

"Hello?"

There's a long pause. Then a woman's voice, sounding confused. "Is that Northern Light? I'm trying to reach Citizen Z."

"You've reached him. He's..." Faye glances at the door. Where the hell is Simon? "...Away from his desk at the moment. Can I take a message?"

On the other end, the woman chuckles. "What are you, his secretary?"

"Something like that."

"We thought he was alone out there. Are you two–?"

" _No_." It comes out more forcefully than she'd intended. "I really just got here. It's a long story. Right now, how can we help?"

"I'm Addy Carver. I don't know how much you're aware of? Me and Mack got separated from the rest of our group by the biggest horde of freaking Zs I've ever seen."

"I know the one you mean. Simon calls it the 'zunami.'"

"'Simon?'"

"Sorry. Citizen Z."

"Huh. That's weird. I never thought of him as having an actual name. Hey, are you sure you two aren't—"

"I think I'd have noticed," Faye says, then she hears a sound in the doorway and Simon's back, hurrying inside. "Wait, here he is. It's Addy Carver," she tells him, handing him the head set and an odd expression contorts his features as he settles into the chair.

"Hi Addy," he says, with an awkward glance up at Faye. "I'm glad you're okay."

Listening to Simon sketching out a plan to get Addy back to her group, Faye feels an uncomfortable sensation she can't quite pin down, mainly because it doesn't seem to make any sense. It almost feels like jealously, but that's just ludicrous, because Addy Carver is the other side of the world, and Faye and Simon are not any sort of couple; just two people thrown together by the end of the world.

There's no reason for her to be jealous. Except for the looks Simon keeps throwing her, a faintly sheepish expression that suggests she's just caught him out in something.

 _What the hell is wrong with me?_

* * *

The days pass slowly, thick and dense as treacle.

Simon has his daily routine carved out like a passage worn into rock, and although Faye suspects he'd bunk off if she asks him – Lars is right about the way he looks at her – she knows how important Operation Bitemark is to him. While he works for hours at a time, she tries to make herself useful, working at the satellite footage, trying to figure out just what it is she's spotted.

On the days when she finds she can't focus on the screen, when she doesn't think she can stand one more minute with his eyes on her, she slips off to explore the compound, hunting for anything and everything she can find. She roots through the stores, rifles through each and every locker, pulls out furniture to look behind it.

She finds a dog-eared copy of Stephen King's _The Stand_ discarded under a bunk, and a whole cupboard full of porn, inevitable in an isolated base like this. She finds cannisters of diesel in the stores, and she wonders what Lars would have done if he'd known it was there. How it would have played out. It's a frightening thought.

The early days of irrational fear are gone, but there are still times when the walls feel like they're crashing in on her, when the air feels stale and lifeless and brands of steel tighten around her chest. As if she only has so many breaths before her throat closes up and she suffocates.

When she feels like this, she can't bear to be around him, because she's painfully aware of the way he tracks her movement when he doesn't think she's watching, and it feels like a needle stabbing at an exposed nerve.

These are the days when she starts to think that maybe it would be better to be alone, because at least then she doesn't have that bloody sword of Damocles hanging above her head, that weight of expectation. Because let's face it, everyone knows what happens when two strangers wind up stranded together; it's the plot of a thousand romances.

And she can't go through it again; she _can't._ Not after what happened with Lars.

She's not scared of Simon any more, and now that she knows him better, she realises how ridiculous it is that she ever _was,_ but what she was not prepared for is how hard it is. Even now, there are times when he smiles at her as she walks into the room, and she has to fight the urge to turn on her heel and walk straight out again. She knows how much it would hurt him if she did.

Even more painful are the moments when she can't bear the thought of _not_ being around him. When she craves his presence like it's an addiction. Those easy moments sitting opposite him in the control room, talking about anything as long as it isn't the zombie apocalypse. Nothing too heavy, because she's scared of bonding further with him; she's got too close already.

More often she refuses to indulge the addiction, and these are the times when she takes off, slipping from room to room like a shadow. Hiding from him again, although she tries not to think of it like that, pretending that she's being useful, looking for things they can use. She's pretty sure they both know that's bullshit.

And other times she sheds the pretence of usefulness, and dons her polar gear, because the air in the facility is stale and dense and the place she really wants to be is outside,staring out at the pale wintry light of the Arctic. The purest place on Earth. The top of the world. She always takes her rifle of course, but she ventures far enough out for it not to feel quite safe.

It frightens her sometimes, how like Lars she is. She'd always known it would change her, right from the very first time she saw the Aurora Borealis, rippling like curtains in the wind over a vast glacier, the boat cutting through the ice-rimed water. And although she feels a gentle tug back towards the facility where there is warmth and food and company, she also feels the urge to go the other way, to strike out into the empty wastes, into the world of jutting ice caps and frozen rivers, to test herself against the frozen wilderness, to see just how long she can survive.

She knows Simon hates it when she does this. He doesn't say anything, but she can see it in his face when she slinks back like a half-tamed stray cat. That look in his eyes hurts, because she can see how lonely he is, how desperately he wants and needs to keep her close, and she hates herself that she can't give him what he wants.

And every now and then she'll meet his eyes and feel the tug of attraction, hear the whispering internal voice that says 'why not? What else is there to do?' There are times when his smile is contagious, when she finds herself holding his gaze for longer than necessary.

And then there are her dreams. Less and less now does she dream of frozen corpses in the snow, of being crushed by a heavy weight in the darkness of her bunk, of her face being pushed into the pillow so she cannot breath, cannot scream. But while she might not dream about terror and death any longer, when she wakes up hot and sweating, her legs tangled in the bedclothes, her heart skittering like a bird against a window, she is still terrified.


	8. Songs about the End of the World

**A/N: Some mild sexual content in this chapter. Thank you to everyone who's reading this. If you're enjoying it, I would very much appreciate it if you left a review. All comments are very much appreciated. Sorry to beg, but... please, please, please? ;)  
**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight  
Songs about the End of the World**

He isn't sure when it happens, but at some point over the last month he has started thinking of himself as Simon Cruller again. And Faye is entirely responsible for that. It's strange to hear his name spoken after so long. The last person he told his name to was Lieutenant Hammond, but he's not even sure the man ever even remembered – Simon can't actually remember the poor baby-bait bastard ever actually calling him by it. He doubts the man ever thought of him as anything other than a faceless drone, a voice on the radio. A source of intel to be used.

The Citizen Z thing had started as a joke, a radio persona to wear when he was finding things particularly difficult. When he found himself choking up, unable to hold back the tears, somehow it was easier to let Citizen Z take over, to play a role just for a little while. He hadn't meant to let it subsume his personality, but gradually it had started to take over, until he'd almost forgotten that there was ever any such person as Simon Cruller.

As if somehow he could protect himself by pretending to be someone else. As if it could all hurt any less.

He'd begun to think he'd never hear anybody call him by his name again. Until Yuri.

Until Faye.

The way she says his name sends shivers of pleasure down his spine. And okay, partly that's because he's attracted to her – no big surprise there, given that she's the first actual woman he's seen seen in almost two years; even fully populated, Camp Northern Light was an estrogen-free zone – but it's also because he finally knows someone who cares enough about him to want to know his name. Someone who cares enough to use it.

That's a feeling he hasn't known in a while, and he's finding he enjoys it. Perhaps a little too much.

He wonders if there's anyone out there who remembers him, or if everyone he knows is dead.

And he wonders if Murphy knows his name, whether Hammond ever bothered to tell him. Somehow Simon doubts it. Even though Murphy's his patient zero, the central player in this whole ramshackle performance, Simon has barely spoken to him. And then he shivers, because he hates thinking about Murphy.

Something is very badly wrong with the man.

* * *

Over the last few weeks – when he's not been daydreaming about Faye – Simon has been working on reuniting Addy and Mack with the main group, and finally he's managed it, by getting them all to meet up at an old CIA black ops facility. Top secret, of course, and there's no way Simon should know about it, but turns out all you really need to get hold of state secrets is a grizzled ex-spy with a whisky habit and an untapped well of loneliness and self-loathing.

Poor Chester. He should have known things would end badly for the mad old bastard.

It's been a while since he'd last seen Murphy, and when he does his stomach clenches with unease.

The colours on the video are out of whack, but even so there's a strange tint to his skin. He's shaved his hair at some point, too,and compared to the photo that Simon has on file he looks like a completely different man. A sick one.

Faye inhales. "That's Murphy?" she murmurs, too softly for the group to hear.

Simon forces a smile, tells the group that California is a go, knowing how tightly he is stretching the truth, and all the time he can't take his eyes off Murphy. Because the man looks... _wrong_.

When they're gone, he swivels in the chair, his face pale. Faye leans on the table nearby, her arms crossed. "You have no idea about the lab in California do you?"

"Are you asking if I just lied through my teeth to them?" He's avoiding her eyes, because he knows what she must be thinking. He hopes she doesn't think too badly of him. "What else can I do, Faye? If I told them the truth..."

"I know, I know. I'm not blaming you." She rests her hand lightly on his shoulder. He has to resist the urge to tilt his head and press his cheek against it. "I get it."

 _Good,_ Simon thinks. _Because I'm not sure I do._ The truth is he has no clue what he's doing, and there's no one around to give him orders. Sometimes that comes as a relief – he always did chafe under editorial control – but in a situation like this it makes him feel sick with dread. These people are relying on him, and if he gets it wrong, it could mean the end of the human race. How the hell did he end up with that sort of responsibility landing on his shoulders?

"And what would they say if they know the truth?" he continues, bitterly. "Oh hey, by the way I have no clue about the status of the Mount Wilson lab. Oh, and Dr Merch has vanished and no one knows where she is. And did I mention that all the files containing her research have been destroyed, and oh by the way that last one's actually _totally_ my fault? Ha ha, my bad." Okay, he'd been trying to save lives, but still...

He glances up at her, saw her expression. "Sorry," he says. "Just feeling a little conflicted."

"Yeah, I'm getting that." And still she's frowning, staring up at the screen.

"What's wrong?" he asks, although he's pretty sure he knows.

"It's just..." She hesitates, looking uneasy. _Don't,_ he thinks. _Don't say it._ "What the bloody hell is up with that guy Murphy?"

 _Ah, shit._ "Best guess, it's a side affect of the vaccine. Or maybe a response to the original bites. I don't know; I'm not an epidemiologist. But he's alive. That's what matters." He wonders whether Murphy felt the same way, and guesses not. Murphy's general take on the whole saving the world thing is not one of reluctant acceptance. Sometimes Simon suspects the only thing keeping Murphy on-mission is his own personal team of dedicated bodyguards keeping the jerk alive.

Yet another snag to add to his ever-growing list.

"He looks sick. He looks like a walking corpse. What the hell was in that vaccine?"

He wishes he knew. Or maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's better not to know.

* * *

"You know what?" Faye says. "Sometimes I can't help but wander if my life's a big cosmic joke." They're in the rec-room, rifling through the jumbled collection of movies and box-sets to find something to watch. "I mean, look at these DVDs. _The Shining. The Thing. Dead Snow. Frozen_. Is it just me, or am I starting to sense a bit of a theme here? Why are there so few sodding films set somewhere _warm?_ "

Simon laughs, holding up a case. "Well, there's this. It's set in the Amazon."

She flashes him a dangerous look. "I am not watching _Cannibal_ bloody _Holocaust_. Christ, _Dead Snow_ was bad enough. And as for _The Thing_ –"

He's trying to stop himself from laughing. "What's wrong with _The Thing_?"

"Nothing. It's a great film. The John Carpenter version at any rate. But at any point did you not think that, given our situation, watching a film about survivors in a frozen wasteland succumbing to paranoia and mistrust was maybe not the best idea in the world?" She sighs, sitting back on her haunches. "And so many films about zombies. What the bloody hell was wrong with us?"

"Yeah, I've wondered that myself. Maybe we brought it on ourselves by being so freaking obsessed."

"Hmm." She picks up a DVD, scanning the back.

Simon sits back, watching her while trying not to watch her. No matter how much he fights it, he always finds his gaze drawn back to her. Even when she's not in his direct line of sight, he's aware of her in his peripheral vision. When she's not there, he misses her. He starts to think that maybe he's imagined her.

There are still times when she's distant, exploring the compound like an animal pacing the length of its cage. He doesn't know what she's looking for, but her bad dreams seem to be easing off. She's no longer so gaunt in the face, and he's noticed that the combats he lent her no longer fasten up. She's starting to look more like the healthy, happy woman he'd seen in the video. He's glad of that.

The truth is he's happy to watch anything with her. As long as it doesn't have any sex scenes. He learned that the hard way, after sitting through three minutes of agony. Three minutes of trying to ignore the proximity of the first woman he's seen in almost two years. Three minutes of trying to hide a painful erection from a woman who's sitting so close to him he can smell the shampoo in her hair.

It's not an experience Simon wants to repeat in a hurry, and choosing things to watch is a minefield.

Unfortunately, the selection of DVDs is limited. If only Netflix still worked...

She signs. "I am definitely not in the mood for zombies. How about starting _Game of Thrones_? I've heard it's good."

"Um..." The thought of having to sit through the brothel scenes with her is making him light-headed. No doubt due to all the blood rushing to his extremities.

She's watching him. He has to say something, but all he can focus on is the thin sliver of skin on her lower back where her t-shirt has ridden up.

"Simon?"

"It's not finished. It'd drive you crazy, not knowing how it's going to end. It's not like George R. R. Martin's still out there, holed up in his zombie-proofed bunker, typing away..." He trails off, staring at the box-set, because it's suddenly hit him.

 _A Song of Ice and Fire_ will never be finished.

It's a strange thing to fixate on. Trivial really, but he's come to realise that sometimes it's the trivial things that hurt the most. Usually he tries not to think too hard about the rest of the world. Maybe if this thing with Murphy works, maybe if Faye can figure out some key to the Z behaviour, maybe they can scrabble some of it back. Rebuild civilisation from the scraps they're left with.

Maybe.

But every now and then it hits him. Every now and then something trivial breaks through and it's like a shaft of sunlight piercing a cloud on an overcast day, only instead of bringing cheer it casts a cold light of clarity on how he sees things; shows him how everything he's been trying to do here is a waste of time, just a way of marking the hours until he dies.

All the things they've lost. All the countless millions of people dead. Probably everyone he's ever known.

"Hey." Faye reaches out, touches his hand. Her skin is warm, soft. He wants to twist his hand around, press his palm against hers. Entwine their fingers and ever let go.

Instead he jerks his hand away. She flinches, then her expression smooths over. "I'm okay," he says, forcing a smile. He's rewarded by a quirk of an eyebrow.

"So," she says, laying down the _Game of Thrones_ box-set. "That's out as well."

"And there are zombies in it," he adds, remembering. "Kind of."

"Oh for fuck's sake," she says, rolling her eyes. "What was _wrong_ with us? Why couldn't we just let the dead stay dead?" She picks up _28 Days Later_ , scanning the case, her eyes sad.

* * *

Sick of zombies or not, it's the one which they end up watching. During the early scenes, where Cillian Murphy's character wanders the eerily deserted London streets, he finds himself watching Faye. Her face is white and strained, her lips pressed together. She isn't crying, though; her eyes are dry.

"Have you heard anything from Britain?" she asks. "Any signals or signs of life?"

"Not for a while." He wishes he had better news for her. "But it doesn't mean anything."

"Yes, it does." She pours them both a vodka. Two more empty miniatures clatter on the table. "I mean, I'm not kidding myself. I know the UK's fucked. A country with strict gun control is hardly going to fare well in a zombie apocalypse. But I still can't help hoping, you know?"

"It doesn't mean anything," he insists. "And there will be places where people survive. There always are. People hole up, they find shelter, they seek each other out." He hesitates. "You did."

She places her hand over his. "Thank you for trying to make me feel better. Can we turn the film off for now? I don't think it's helping."

He nods, turns it off. "Want to play _Dead Rising_?"

She thinks for a moment. "More zombies? How about we just sit here, listen to music and drink a metric shit-ton of vodka?"

He clinks his mug against hers. "Now that sounds like a plan."

Looking back, he isn't quite sure how it happened. They talk for hours about their lives before, the family they've both lost, until eventually they trail off and sit in silence.

The mood is dark, drunken and brooding and wraps around the two of them like a shroud.

She tilts her head, listening to the music, and it's only when she starts to sing along, her eyes dark, that he recognises the song as The Clash's _London Calling._ A song about London being destroyed by a nuclear bomb.

 _Well that's just perfect,_ he thinks, and although he reaches out to change the song, she catches hold of his arm, shaking her head. "It's the Irish in me," she says. "I sing when I'm drunk."

After that, the evening kicks up a notch. They start scanning through his eclectic music collection, searching for songs about the apocalypse, and it turns into something that Simon can only think of as Apocalypto-Karaoke: the two of them singing along very badly to songs about the end of the world, starting with Faye singing along to The Jam's _Going Underground_ , which Simon matches with a version of _99 Red Balloons_ that leaves Faye doubled up on the sofa, wheezing with laughter. It culminates with the worst karaoke duet of REM's _It's the End of the World as We Know it_ in the history of mankind, and then they're collapsing on the sofa, laughing so hard they can't breathe.

Faye is trying to say something, but every time she tries, she collapses into giggles and that only makes him laugh harder, until he's almost in pain and there are tears in his eyes. "Don't," she's trying to say, through her laughter, and when he looks up she's wiping her cheeks and her eyes are wet. _Tears of laughter_ , he thinks, only he's not sure that's true, and he no longer feels like laughing either. He wants to cry too.

"Don't," she says again, and suddenly he's no longer certain whether she's talking to him or to herself. He has the uncomfortable feeling that maybe it's neither of them, that there's someone else in the room entirely, but then all that is swept away, because she's kissing him, her body warm and close.

He wants to tell her to wait, to give him a second to catch his breath, but when she eases off slightly, he reaches around and pulls her closer, kissing her harder. She makes a soft sound in her throat, shifts position so she's straddling him, her hair falling in a softly scented curtain across his face. He slips his hands up under her t-shirt, feels the soft smooth skin of her back, expecting her to pull away at any moment, to stop him. Only she doesn't, and there is an urgency to her movements, a hungry desperation that is almost violent. She knots her fingers in his hair so tightly it almost hurts.

 _This isn't right._

They're both drunk, both half out of their minds with sorrow and hysteria. It's the hardest thing he's ever done, but he tugs his hands back out from beneath her t-shirt, presses them against her shoulders, pushes her away. "Wait," he manages, catching his breath. "Wait a minute."

She looks almost angry, her eyes hooded. "What is it?"

"Um..." He pushes his hand through his hair, then slips out from underneath her. He struggles to find the words.

"I thought it was what you wanted," she says, and he flushes, because had he really been that obvious? Still there seems no point in denying it now.

"Maybe," he says, shifting his erection to a slightly more comfortable position. "Only... not like this."

She looks blank and he gestures towards the miniatures scattered on the table.

Her expression twists. "How noble of you," she says, and her tone of voice is sardonic and bitter. Then she seems to shake herself, and rubs her hands against her face. When she drops them, the hard angry glint in her eyes has gone. "You're right," she says. "Damn it." She looks sad now.

"I'm sorry," he says, trying to sound like he means it and not like he's mentally kicking himself for turning down what might be the only offer of sex he's likely to get for the rest of his life.

"No, _I'm_ sorry." She drops her hands from her face and catches his eye. "Fucking hell, this is awkward." They both laugh. Not the wild uncontrollable laughter of earlier, but something different. Safer. The moment of madness seems to have passed.

She inhales and exhales, a deep shaky breath. "Film?" she suggests, and Simon nods.

Neither of them can bear to start watching _28 Days Later_ again, so he picks _The Shining_ , mainly because he isn't thinking straight and it's the first movie he sees that doesn't technically have zombies in it. Ghosts don't count. When he sits down beside her on the sofa it's clear something has changed between them. As the movie starts, she leans into him, and hardly daring to breathe, Simon slips his arm around her back. She nestles closer. And for the first time, he finds himself able to relax and watch the movie, without spending the whole time frantically agonising about the upcoming topless scene.

Okay, so it's not the romance of the century. _At least_ , he amends, glancing down at the top of her head, with a goofy grin he's glad she can't see, _not yet_. He contemplates placing a kiss on the parting of her hair, but figures it's probably a little early for that. But she's warm and alive, and unlike the dog, she's company that can actually talk, and even if he never so much as gets the chance to kiss her again, this is enough.

* * *

In the light of day, once their skull-splitting hangovers have receded, they quickly settle into a routine that seems normal. Well, as normal as their utterly FUBAR situation can allow at any rate.

Simon wakes up first, checks the worldwide situation, attempts to check in on Delta-X-ray, without success, then picks through the data that has been gathered overnight, searching for anything that might grab her interest, give her another thread to unravel.

When she slopes into the control room it's time for him to break off work, make them both a hot drink, Earl Grey for him, foul-tasting instant coffee for her. Turns out not all myths about the Brits are false; they really don't mind horrible coffee. He's trying to work on that, but so far she seems happy with the instant.

"Sleep well?" he asks, although he usually knows the answer. Their rooms are close enough together that he can hear whether she sleeps well or not, and when he hears her screaming in the night, he's torn with the urge to run into her room to comfort her. But she has the dog, who's been sleeping in her room more often than not, and on the nights when Simon is the one who wakes screaming, she doesn't come to him, so he figures it's better to leave things as they are. At least for now.

When his energy starts to wane he'll look up at where she sits, watching the passage of far distant Zs. Every now and then she'll glance up, catch him watching and smile. And sometimes he'll blush, because he's been thinking about _that_ night: the warmth of her skin beneath his hands, the taste of her lips and the weight of her body on his. And how it might have been if, instead of stopping her, he'd gently pushed her back and made love to her.

Even so, he's glad he didn't do that. He's pretty sure that if he hadn't stopped them, they wouldn't have this easy rapport that's developed between them. That look of wariness is a thing of the past. She _trusts_ him now, and he's damned if he's going to break that trust.

Anyway, things are changing. He can feel it in his gut. He feels like they're on the brink of something. Every now and then when he glances up to watch her, he finds her already watching _him._ It's a heady, happy feeling, one he dimly remembers, and one which he thought he'd never feel again.

The slow inexorable head-rush of falling in love.


	9. Who Knew the End of the World Would Be S

**Chapter Nine  
Who Knew the End of the World Would Be So Complicated?**

As they creep towards autumn, Faye is getting a bit of a knack for the satellite stuff. She's moved on from the feed of the US zunami, although she's keeping an eye on it, just in case she needs to keep Simon, and by proxy his team, updated about any new threats.

Instead, she's been comparing the behaviours of the USA zunami with hordes in other countries, particularly large expanses of land like China, Russia, mainland Europe. Trying to spot any similarities, or significant differences. Temperature seems to be the main factor, but it's interesting to see how geographical features skew the behaviour. Towns, mountains, rivers; elements that would have no effect on avian migration make a difference here.

Her eyes are starting to ache. She's been staring at the screen too long, focused on a relatively small horde of a few thousand somewhere in Slovakia, near the southern edge of the Tatra mountains. To the north a massive horde is sweeping south through Poland. The two groups can't see each other, but Faye has extrapolated the movements of the first group, theorising that they will swing to the north instead of the south like she might have expected, skirting the mountains, until they merge with the main horde.

If she's right, it will raise a whole shitload of questions, because it will mean that the Zs are being drawn together by something more than the noise of shuffling and moans for brains.

 _If_ she's right, because so far the smaller group don't seem to be doing much more than edging along very, very slowly. She has to fight the urge to clench her fists and shriek "Shuffle faster, damn it."

 _Been at this too long._

There's no rush, not really, but her academic interest has been piqued, and if she's honest she's no longer looking specifically for things that could help, but studying the Zs for their own sake.

And now she frowns, because when did she start thinking of them as 'Zs'? Simon's influence.

Oh shit, he's watching her again.

She stiffens, feeling a warmth creeping over her cheeks, remembering for what seems like the millionth time that night. _Never mix vodka-fuelled mania and despair,_ she thinks. _It rarely ends well._

But actually it could have ended a lot worse. If he'd had a bit less self control, they might actually have slept together, and that would have been so much worse.

 _Although–_

 _No. Shut up. Don't even think about it._

The trouble is she likes him. Not like that, she doesn't think; he's about as far from her usual type as it's possible for a man to be. Just as long as she doesn't listen to the hollow ball of loneliness inside her chest or look into his eyes for too long.

He's not her type. Pre-apocalypse, her last serious partner was a 42-year old classics professor with a house in Hampstead. The newest piece of technology in his house was a computer so old it might as well have run on clockwork. It still had a CRT monitor, for God's sake. She wonders if Simon's even ever seen a CRT monitor in his entire life.

He's... well, he's younger than her for a start, and they come from two different worlds. She's pretty sure she isn't his type either. When he talks about his friends back in the US, they sound like a bunch of hipsters.

Only the more she watches him work, the more impressed she gets. Long after most people would have given up, he's still here, fighting for the world. It's hard not to be just the tiniest bit drawn to that.

She supposes it's inevitable in a way. A man and a woman stranded together; it's the plot of a thousand romances. And sometimes when she catches him watching her, she wonders why the hell she's fighting it? But she's been down that road before, and she doesn't think she can do it again.

His chair creaks, and she forces herself to look at him, her heart skipping. The flush has spread to her ears now; they are so red they're practically burning. "Got to, uh..." He thumbs towards the door. "Hungry?"

"Starving, actually," and she realises it's true. She glances back at the Polish zombies, but they're not doing anything fast.

"Meet you in the rec-room in ten minutes?"

"It's a date," she says without thinking, and then cringes. _Oh, Faye, you absolute fucking idiot._

Who knew the end of the world would be so bloody complicated?

Simon just smiles sadly and leaves the room.

* * *

In the dream, she wakes, roused by the sensation of something clamped around her throat. She coughs, jerks upright, fingers darting to her throat.

Nothing there.

The air is freezing; she can hear the howling of a blizzard outside. The wind sounds almost like a drawn out scream. She exhales, her breath frosting in the air, and slips out of bed. The door is gaping open; she always leaves it closed.

"Hello?" Her bare feet pad on the cold concrete floor as she makes her way to Simon's room. Here too the door is ajar, and she pushes it inwards, glancing along the rows of serried bunks, all neatly made except for one. On the bottom bunk where he sleeps, the bedclothes are rumpled, and when she places her hand against the greying cotton sheet she can feel the residual heat of his body.

He can't have gone far.

"Simon?" she calls, and flinches as something flits past in her peripheral vision. She spins around with a cry of fright. Heart skittering in her chest, she stares at the open door, and then, defenceless, she advances.

Down the corridor she hears the pattering of footsteps. Another wail, that no longer sounds quite like the wind outside.

When she steps into the hanger, she gasps, pressing herself back against the wall. The vast space is shrouded with a fog so dense she can barely see three feet in front of her.

And it's _cold._ So cold the cold is drilling down into her bones. Spreading up from her numbed feet through her calves. When she looks down she knows her feet will be white with the beginnings of frostbite.

Another burst of running footsteps, so _close,_ somewhere in the fog, and she darts forward, praying that it's Simon. She calls out to him, but there is no response, only the suffocating silence of the fog. Panic tightens her chest, bands of steel clamping so hard she knows it won't be long until her breath is choked off completely and she won't be able to breathe at all.

 _Where is he?_

She hears the click of claws on concrete, turns her head just in time to see the husky flash by with a twitch of his tail, and then he too is lost in the fog.

"Dog?" she whispers, and then again louder. "Dog! Hey, come back here, boy."

He doesn't.

She yells Simon's name as hard as she can. It sounds muted, muffled, as if someone is holding a pillow over her face. She sucks in a breath, and then another, telling herself that she can still breathe. She can't let the panic win.

"Simon!"

And this time she gets an answer, although not the one she wanted. She can hear him screaming, a wrenching sound filled with terror and pain and half-formed words. He's begging with someone, pleading, and she turns blindly towards the sound, desperate to help him.

She's only gone a few steps before his screams are cut short. She stops dead, stumbling to a halt. The silence is worse.

Faye breathes hard, tears burning on her frozen cheeks. "Simon?" she whispers, edging forward.

Something is taking shape in the fog. A crumpled shape, like a fireworks night Guy, dropped from a great height. It's a wreck of a thing, and she tells herself it can't ever have been human, although it's wearing his clothes, his parka, and then she's backing away, letting the fog take the sight away from her, because she can't bear to see.

Because she's alone again. She's alone again and everybody's dead.

"Well," someone whispers in her ear, "Not quite everybody."

She screams as something moves behind her. An arm clamps around her throat and drags her backwards into the shadows.

* * *

She wakes up screaming, her nails scratching at her neck hard enough to draw blood. When someone touches her, she hits out, blindly fighting them until Simon's voice breaks through the veil between waking and sleep.

"Faye, it's me. It's me. You're okay, you're safe."

She stops struggling and stares at him, feeling a sudden rush of relief, and suddenly she's crying, uncontrollable sobs wrenching her body, and he's got his arms around her. He murmurs soothing, meaningless things under his voice, stroking her back like she's a frightened child.

When her sobs subside she pulls away. He clings on, just for a moment, and then reluctantly releases her. They're in the rec-room, she realises, and she has a hazy memory of watching a film. She grimaces at the wet smear of tears and snot she's left on his shirt, and she wipes her face, sucking in a shaky, juddery breath. "Sorry. Bad dream."

"What was it about?" he asks, and before she can think, she says, simply, "I was alone."

His expression clouds. "Been there," he says, darkly.

* * *

It's been a while since she checked in on the group of zombies she's starting to think of as hers. She's surprised at how comfortable she feels as she drops into the chair, and how much she wants to find something. She has suspected all along that Simon has been humouring her, that this is just a way of keeping her occupied while he works, so that she doesn't distract him or lose her mind with boredom.

But she _is_ onto something. She knows she is. She just isn't sure what it means yet.

It takes her a while to find the group, and when she does, she punches the air triumphantly. "I knew it!"

They haven't joined up with the main horde, but they _have_ swung north into the Tatras. Unless they've been chasing people, she can't see any reason why they would have done that. She's right; there is something more going on.

Simon looks up. "Found something?"

"I think so. But I'm not sure what it means yet."

He comes over and she feels a shivery thrill as he leans over her. She taps the screen, pointing out the group she's been tracking, and then scrolls upwards to show the larger group, which has moved on quite a distance, sweeping through Poland like an army on the march.

She switches the view back to the smaller group. "These guys should have gone south towards Greece. But they haven't. They've gone into the mountains. It might be that there's people there, but I think it's because–"

"Because they're moving towards the horde." He pauses, frowning. "That's a big horde, Faye. It must be audible for miles."

"Enough to be heard across a mountain range?"

He's starting to come round. "So there's something else drawing them together? Some sort of zombie-radar?"

She nods. "I think so. And I think the larger the group, the more powerful the signal."

Now he's getting excited. "Like a kind of collective ESP."

"And the hordes grow exponentially. The larger they get the faster they grow."

"Well, _that's_ terrifying."

Faye shrugs. "Yes and no. The more zombies in the horde, the fewer elsewhere. Which is a plus."

"What is this thing?" he wonders aloud. "What's going on here? Zs are one thing, but psychic Zs? What the hell?"

"We don't necessarily know it's some form of ESP. It could be pheromones, or... high-pitched frequency sounds or something. But it's interesting, don't you think?"

"There's just so much we don't know," he says. "I hear things, but keeping me updated seems to be the last item on everyone's to do list. Some of the crap I've heard from Operation Bitemark–"

She grins. "You're thinking about the Zombiepedia again?"

"I'm telling you it's not a bad idea."

"Simon, you're such a..." She breaks off, laughing. "I don't even know what you are."

"Nerd? Geek?"

"No." She glances at him, frowning. "None of those things fit. Not really."

"Maybe it's not such a great idea," he says, sighing. "We have no guarantee that the Zs behaviour is fixed or that anything is going to stay the same two, three years down the line. Hell, I don't even know what's going on with Murphy. This is a virus, and viruses mutate."

"Now that _is_ a frightening thought," she murmurs, staring back at the screen.

That night they eat steak, drink beer, and play game after game of pool. They laugh, but there's an edge to it, because they both know that it cannot last.

Winter is coming and the sun will soon be gone.


	10. Streams of Whisky

**Chapter Ten  
Streams of Whisky**

It's autumn, and although the sun hasn't quite left for good – there's another week to go until true Polar night – it no longer rises. Simon stands in the doorway, huddled in his parka, staring uneasily out at the dim twilight. He's hardly aware of the husky at his feet.

The sky is a deep cobalt blue, streaked with pink wisps of cloud. In the distance the ice-capped mountains shine, lit from below by the sun beneath the horizon. It's beautiful and terrifying all at once, because he knows what it means: one hundred days where the sun will not rise, and two months of that will be spent in total darkness.

The mountain casts an inky-black shadow upon the snow. It seems to stretch towards them, threatening to engulf the base. It looks almost like a living thing, creeping across the expanse of white, eager and ancient and hungry.

Simon closes his eyes and he's a child again, a frightened boy screaming for his mother in the night.

The dog whines, glancing behind them. Simon can't tear his gaze away from the streak of light on the horizon. From the remnants of the sun.

Faye comes up behind him, holding a glass of wine in each hand.

"You okay?" she asks, and he feels like laughing and crying, because how could he possibly be okay?

Instead he forces a smile, shivers inside his parka. "I'm starting to feel like Ned Stark." She raises her eyebrows, not getting the reference. Right, he'd forgotten she hasn't seen or read Game of Thrones."Winter is coming."

"Oh." She sighs, hands him a glass of wine. "That."

He doesn't take a sip. The liquid looks too dark, almost like blood.

How can he explain it to her, why he's so afraid of the coming darkness. He was alone for a year before the dog found him and the winter was the worst. The darkness, whole and absolute, with long stretches of no contact from Hammond. He'd had nothing to do, nothing to hear but his own voice, increasingly frightened, increasingly strained.

And the longer it went on, the stronger he started to feel the tug of hopelessness, the urge to take his gun and give himself mercy. Put an end to the loneliness and the silence, once and for all.

There's something primal about the darkness, the lack of light. With the sun below the horizon, the shadows are creeping closer. And these shadows have teeth.

He had thought it would help having Faye here, but he's not sure that it does. Despite the long months they've been together, the hours they've spent talking, sometimes he might as well be alone. She's still holding back from him, still keeping her distance and her secrets, and when Simon is on edge like this, the paranoia is starting to creep back in.

He feels like he's breaking up around the edges, that maybe she's not real, just another hallucination. A spirit of the Arctic who has taken on female form to lead him out into the empty wilderness of ice and snow.

He knows it's madness, knows it's just his fear talking. Faye is as real as she is. She's frightened, and vulnerable, and he's half in love with her, but when he looks at her now all he can feel is the dizzy sensation of standing at the edge of the crevasse between them.

Because he's _tired._ He hasn't slept properly in weeks. Maybe longer. And he's not sure he can do it any more.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Faye asks. She places her hand on his arm, and he has to fight the instinct to jerk away from her. He feels a hollow sensation within his ribs, a dull throbbing in his temple. The daydreams he's been nurturing are bitter and mocking: phantoms in flimsy paper masks. He slowly draws back from her.

"I said I'm fine."

Hurt flickers behind her eyes. Simon swallows, glances once more at the glow of the sun at the horizon, and then he turns and goes back inside.

* * *

He can't concentrate on his work. Can't summon the motivation to sit and try to contact Operation Bitemark. Instead he drinks and watches the sky, as if somehow he could stop the turn of the seasons through sheer will alone. But the longer he watches, the darker the sky becomes, and soon there isn't even the glimmer of twilight or the smear of light along the horizon to prove that the sun still exists.

Only darkness and the deadening weight of snow.

Faye goes out every day now, slipping out into the night no matter what the weather. He watches her sometimes over the monitors, as she walks the circumference of the base, her head bent against the biting snow. Sometimes she stops, and stares out into the distance, and he wishes he could see her face.

It's as if they've slipped back in time to the days when she was afraid of him. She watches him with that same cautious wariness in her eyes, as if she knows she can't trust him. Sometimes, when he's drunk and angry and afraid, Simon wonders if she isn't right.

Whatever it is between them, the friendship they've stacked up like a cairn of precariously balanced rocks, is starting to crumble, and he hates himself because he knows that he is the only one to blame.

The light from the door spills out onto the snow. Faye is staring up at the moon, her arms crossed, her hood back. Snowflakes gleam in her hair, and Simon's heart aches.

 _What am I doing?_ he wonders. _Why am I doing this to myself?_

He follows her gaze. The moon is fat and full, a silvery circle, surrounded by a gleaming corona of light. It gleams in the star-scattered sky, and beneath it the land looks dead, a patchwork of shadows and darkness. It's eerily beautiful but all he can think is how many places there are for the monsters to hide.

"It's supposed to mean bad weather," Faye says. She doesn't look at him; she hardly ever looks at him these days, and when she does, he wishes she wouldn't.

* * *

And she's right. The storm comes on the next day, a shrill, howling fury that goes on for days. Snow piles up at the windows and the doors, and together they shovel it away, their hands stiff and numb from the cold. They work in silence, barely looking at one another, working until they're drenched with frozen sweat beneath their parkas. And the next day they do it all again, the snow pelting their faces, blinding them. All the while, Simon is aware of the creeping shadow of the mountain. It seems to edge closer when he's not looking.

It's almost a relief that he can't sleep because of the endless thunder of the storm. When he sleeps, he dreams, sweat-soaked nightmares that leave him weeping and tangled in the bedclothes. The dog returns, slinking back, and he guesses he has Faye to thank for that. Even so it doesn't help him sleep, so he sits up and drinks whisky and watches the rime of snow forming on the window-panes, shrouding the darkness outside like a curtain.

He doesn't realise he's crying until he looks up and sees Faye standing in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. Her hair is loose, spilling over her shoulders. She looks drained, exhausted, her eyes sunken and dark with shadows. "Couldn't sleep either," she says. It's not a question.

He lifts the glass, more tears burning trails down his cheeks. He can't stop them, and he's not sure if he even cares any more. "Whisky helps," he lies.

She stands there for a long time, staring at the window, listening to a flurry of snow striking angrily against the glass. For a moment, he thinks she's going to leave, and he suddenly, desperately wants to keep her with him. He licks his chapped lips, and tilts his head towards the sofa. "Join me?" He's ashamed to hear a note of begging in his voice.

For a long while, he doesn't think she will. Then she comes slowly into the room, her bare feet padding on the concrete as if she barely feels the cold. His gaze fixes on her left foot, the foreshortened toes she's lost to frostbite. She sinks down beside him, lifts the blanket to wrap around his shoulder.

They share the mug of whisky, passing it back and forth like a chalice. Where her bare arm rests against his, her skin is cold. He studies the dark shadows and the lace-like traceries of wrinkles around her eyes, wondering how long it's been since she last slept without nightmares. Whether either of them will ever sleep easy again.

"How did you get through last winter?" he asks, because he can't listen to the storm any longer. "Did you spend it on the boat?"

She sighs, and at first he thinks she isn't going to answer, that she's going to sidestep the question like she always has before. Only then she turns her head to look at him. "We holed up in an old trappers' cabin, waited it out."

"'We?'"

Her eyes are dark. "Lars and me. The _Arctic Fox_ was his boat." And she sips the whisky, her expression unreadable.

 _Lars._ The man in the video.

"Were the two of you..." He can't say it. The words catch in his throat. Faye isn't looking at him; she tops up the whisky with several of the miniatures. _Holy shit. We're going to get drunk tonight._ She isn't going to answer him, but he knows the answer. It's written in the flash of sorrow and regret that crosses her face. "Sorry," he says, feeling his cheeks burning. "None of my business."

She closes her eyes. "I wish this fucking storm would end."

"It will soon," he promises. He's been checking the weather satellite. "Another day or so. Least we're warm." He accepts the mug of whisky, takes a swig, feels it burning its way down his throat. "And I'm not alone. Not like last winter."

She takes a breath. "Last winter was the first time I ever killed a polar bear," she murmurs. "They came in with the pack ice, came close to the hut. Curious, I guess. One climbed on the roof and tried to rip out the chimney."

He listens, feeling cold. "Jesus."

"Lars taught me how to use the rifle. I'd never shot a gun before. But it was food, as long as we managed to finish them before they turned. Americans hunt a lot, right? You ever go hunting?"

He shrugs. "Dad took me and Matty a couple of times. I wasn't very good at it."

"Well, turns out I am. I never would have thought it, but I guess the threat of starvation is a powerful motivator. So that's how I spent most of last winter, sitting in the hut at the window, waiting for the bear to come close enough to get a clean shot, kill it outright without it turning. So we could _eat._ Since you asked. Mostly they were already dead, but we did get the odd live one to stave off death for a little while longer."

"Faye..." He trails off, not knowing what to say. He's had too much whisky; his head is reeling.

"The point is, I got through it. I survived." She reaches up, wipes a tear away from his cheek. "We'll get through this, Simon. I know maybe it doesn't feel like it at the moment, but this storm will pass and this winter will end."

"I know that."

"Do you? Sometimes I wonder."

He sighs, staring at the window. At the darkness. He's glad for the lattice of ice that crusts the glass; it means that he can't see if there's anything out there, staring in. "I just..." He hesitates. "I feel like something bad's gonna happen." She raises her eyebrows and he makes an impatient gesture with his hand. "I know, I know. The apocalypse. But something else. Something worse."

"Like we're being watched?"

"Yeah, exactly." He lifts the whisky to his lips, but stops, staring down at it. Suddenly he's not sure he wants any more. "Ah, don't listen to me. I'm talking out my ass. It's just the darkness. And the dreams. And this damn storm."

"And the whisky?"

He grins, ruefully. "Yeah, that too." He pauses for a moment. "Faye, will you tell me one thing?"

"Mmm..."

"This Lars guy?" he says, and she stiffens beside him. "You, uh... you didn't eat him, did you?"

There is a long moment of silence. Then she bursts out laughing. "You mean am I a cannibal?"

"Hey, it happens. Wish it didn't, but it does. Just, if you are, I'd appreciate a heads up."

"You got me," she says, smiling. "Total cannibal. I'm just waiting until I can get you fattened up."

And now Simon laughs, for the first time in weeks. For the first time since the onset of the darkness. "Yeah?" he says. "Well, good luck with _that_."


	11. Beneath the Northern Lights

**A/N: Firstly, thank you to my guest reviewer. I hugely appreciate your kind words and your taking the time to leave a review. It honestly made my day, so thank you very much.**

 **Please note that this chapter contains non-consensual sexual content (non-violent).**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

 **Beneath the Northern Lights**

Faye's boots squeak on the freshly fallen snow. The endless storms have finally passed, leaving the air crisp, and overhead the Aurora Borealis streams across the sky. Everything is silent; even her breath is hushed. She sits on the steps of the metal staircase and watches the lights, which illuminate the crags and ridges in the distance with an unnatural eerie light.

She's remembering last winter, the abandoned trapping cabin she holed up in with Lars, its walls impregnated with the stench of blood and blubber. The two of them huddled around the table playing cards, while the wind howled like a banshee for their blood, rattling the dirty glass in the window-frames.

Nothing but darkness outside, and inside Lars, watching her constantly. Sometimes they'd put on the radio, listen to the Citizen Z broadcasts. The music helped a little, but the sound of another person's voice helped more. Without him, she might have come to think it was just her and Lars, the two of them the only people left alive in the world.

"That guy," Lars had said. "He's fucking crazy."

Bastard irony.

She remembers boots crunching on gravel, rather than snow. The scattered debris washed in by the tide and sun-bleached bones. She remembers sitting with Lars, how they stared up at the lights on a night very much like this. How when he offered her a drag on his cigarette she finally accepted, slipping it between her lips. The first cigarette she'd smoked in over a decade, and although she'd coughed slightly when she drew the acrid smoke into her lungs, it had felt like coming home. The tip gleamed amber in the darkness, casting pin-point reflective sparks in Lars's eyes.

Neither of them spoke. They didn't have to. Only when they stood up to go back inside did he speak, his voice low and sad. "You're like me, Faye. You're just like me."

And now she hears the crunch of boots on snow, hears Simon's voice calling her name softly. She hates that her first instinct is to pull back into the shadows, to _hide._ She's such a fucking coward. Except she can't hide; the dog comes straight to her, and she ruffles his fur, lets him lick frozen tears from her face.

Simon comes closer, his face etched with anxiety. Even in his parka he's shivering – he hasn't done it up properly, and his neck is bared. Even now he doesn't like being outside; he hates the dark.

"You okay?"

She nods, not sure that she can trust herself to speak. She can feel Lars's presence again, watching them both, smiling darkly. She stares up at the lights and Simon follows her gaze, the hood of his parka dropping back.

"I wanted to get out for a bit," she says. "Watch the lights. I go stir-crazy in there."

"Do you mind if I join you?" He sounds like he expects her to say no.

She nods and he sinks down onto the steps beside her, staring up at the dancing lights. "It's beautiful," he says, and then, without looking at her, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"Yeah, I do." He glances at her, his eyes wide and sad. In them she can see the reflection of the lights, specks of dancing green. "I know things have been difficult lately." He looks back at the lights. "It's the darkness," he says, his voice choking. "It gets to me. I start thinking about last year. When I was alone..." He trails off, and she can't stop herself; she leans against him. Even bulked out by the parka, she can feel how slight his body is, how fragile. "The lights help," he says.

"Imagine it out on the water," she says. "With no sound to hear but the crackle of snow bubbles in the icebergs, the crash of calving glaciers in the distance."

"You almost sound like you miss it."

"I don't,"she says, and she isn't sure how much of a lie it is. Because part of her _does_ miss it. She misses the rock of the boat beneath her, the wild salt-rimed wind lashing her face. She misses the days when she'd sit and watch the passing icebergs, shining blue and white in the pale Arctic light.

Because Lars had been right. Camp Northern Light may be safe. It may have shelter and food and warmth and company, but for all that, it's still a tomb.

 _And you know that,_ she thinks, glancing at Simon. _Don't you?_

She thinks about Lars again, how after that cigarette on the beach, they'd walked slowly back to the cabin. And inside he'd slammed her against the wall, grabbing her arms tightly enough to leave bruises. He had kissed her hard, tasting of cigarettes and vodka, his beard scratching at the sensitive skin around her mouth. And because she hadn't known what else to do, because she was cold and hungry and wasn't sure she wanted to live any more, she'd kissed him back. She'd let him strip off her parka, and pull her legs up around his waist, crushing her against the wall so she could hardly breathe.

His breath had been hard and frantic, his eyes dark and gleaming with the light from the stove. They looked as if they belong to someone else, as if some demon of heat and fire had taken over him. He fumbled at her clothes and she wanted to say "No, stop, wait," but she couldn't talk because of his mouth pressing hungrily over hers, and then it was too late; he was inside her, and she couldn't breathe, she _couldn't breathe._

When he came, he swore in Swedish, slamming his hand against the wall by her head. She jerked her head to the side, gasping for breath, breathing in air that tasted of death and grease. He was still crushing her, and she planted both bands on his chest, pushing him away.

When she met his eyes, he looked bewildered, as if he wasn't quite sure what had just happened. Faye wasn't sure herself. His eyes were begging her to lie to him, to tell him that what had happened was something else entirely. So she had, because she didn't know what else to do.

And afterwards they sat around the table, ate rehydrated cream of mushroom soup, and he spoke about his family, his wife and his two boys. The youngest was just six months old, still at the breast, and all three had been killed when an evacuee camp outside of Stockholm had been overrun by the dead.

He looked angry when he talked about them, almost as if he blamed them for dying, and that dangerous light came creeping back into his eyes until she was no longer sure who he was any more. Faye hesitated, then held out a trembling hand to take hold of his.

"I'll keep you safe," he promised. "No matter what, I'll protect you."

"I know," she'd said, thinking that the rules were different in this new world.

And now she shivers, staring up at the lights. She feels Simon hesitate, then he wraps his arm around her. In return, she leans her head against his with a sigh that frosts on the air. The fur of their hoods mingle, becoming one.

 _You have to stop this, Faye,_ she thinks. _Someone is going to get hurt._

But she can't bring herself to pull away.

A silence settles on them. At their feet, the husky raises his muzzle from where it's tucked in the sheltering warmth of his tail. He whines then gets up and pads inside.

 _More sense than us_. "We should go back in," she says.

"We will," Simon says. "In a minute." He hesitates. "You do know what day it is, don't you?"

She shakes her head. "I lose track of time," she admits. "Why?"

"It's the 24th, Faye. Of December. Christmas Eve?"

She blinks, thinking. _It can't be._ "Is it?" In reply he nods, his gaze steady and unblinking. "Christmas at the North Pole," she says, and laughs. "Well, that's all kinds of messed up."

"I did think I heard sleigh bells earlier." His smile is faint, but hopeful, and she sees a trace of the old Simon returning, the one before the darkness came. "Reindeer on the roof."

"And all I want for Christmas is an end to the apocalypse." She raises her eyebrows at him. "Do you think that's too much to ask for?"

"Hell no. I was holding out for an X-Box, but I'll ask for the same thing. Make it a joint present." He holds out his fist and she bumps her knuckles against his. _Maybe we'll be okay,_ she thinks. Even though they have yet to face the worst of the Arctic winter, and still have over a month of darkness left to live through.

Maybe they'll be okay. After Christmas it won't be too long until the sun returns.


	12. Merry Fucking Zompocalypse

**A/N: Please note that this chapter contains a reference to non-consensual sex.**

 **Please read and review. Comments honestly do make my day and I welcome all forms of feedback, including concrit.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve  
Merry Fucking Zompocalypse**

There's some turkey in the freezer meant for Thanksgiving, but since Faye doesn't celebrate, Simon had decided to save it for Christmas instead. He hasn't felt much like giving thanks until now. It's nearly January: soon the light will return and they'll have made it through, the three of them together.

So they sit around the table and eat, the dog looking fed up in a pair of fluffy reindeer antlers. But he eats the plate of turkey Simon gives him without complaint. The mood is strange, the conversation stilted. They're both thinking about past Christmases, about their families, about all the people they've lost, and Faye keeps putting _Fairytale of New York_ on. Her eyes are distant and misty, but at least she's not singing along. Yet.

She helps him clear the table, carrying the plates through into the kitchen. Her hair is caught up, knotted in a loose bun. Wisps of hair curl at the nape of her neck. He watches her, his mouth dry, thinking about the gift he has for her. He still doesn't know whether it's a good idea or a terrible one, whether he should actually give it to her or not.

"This was nice," she says, turning to him. " still can't believe it's Christmas though. Shame we never saw Santa. I could have done with an end to the apocalypse."

Simon clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Well, I can't promise that, but... I did get you something. It's not much, but..."

Faye raises her eyebrows, and follows him to the control room. He pulls the gift out from where he'd tucked it away and hands it to her, watches as she upwraps it. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. _What the hell was I thinking?_

And then she's holding the framed photograph in her hands, staring down at it. Her expression is unreadable.

It had taken him a while to find a photo of Faye with _both_ her parents. The three of them are dressed for a summer wedding, Faye in a strapless floral dress, a delicate mauve shawl draped around her bare shoulders. She looks sleek and shining and beautiful, and if he hadn't been sure how he felt about her before, the moment he saw that photo he knew he was in love. He wants to see her like that again, wants to see her eyes bright and free of ghosts.

He wants to see her happy.

It's a long time before she speaks. "This is..." She trails off, shaking her head as if she doesn't know what to say. When she looks up her eyes are shining with tears. "I can't believe you did this."

"You like it," he says, relieved.

"Um..." She wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Yeah, yeah, you could say that. This is possibly the sweetest..." She hesitates, then leans close and kisses him gently on the cheek. Her lips are warm and he flushes, looking down, unable to forget that night all those months before. "Thank you." And she sighs, staring down at the photo. "Wish I'd got you something now."

"Next year," he says, and then shivers. The thought of being here for yet another winter fills him with inescapable dread.

"Where did you find this?" she says. "I didn't even know this photograph existed."

"It took a bit of searching," he admits. "But Facebook? Someone called Lily Greene?"

Faye's eyes widen. "You hacked my cousin's Facebook account?"

"Um... yes?"

He wasn't sure how she would react to this, but to his relief she bursts into laughter. "That's either incredibly creepy or incredibly sweet. I'm not sure which."

"Sweet," he says, grinning. "Definitely sweet."

"Thank you, Simon. It really is lovely." She sets the photo on her desk, and then sinks down at his desk, swigs her beer. She gestures to the screens. "Show me?"

"Show you what?"

"Facebook. I'm in the mood to look at photographs."

And so they spend Christmas Day 3 AZ screwing around on the internet, flicking back through photographs of the years pre-Z. Holidays, drunken nights out. Faye as a teenager, dressed in a swimming costume, sitting on a gravel beach, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her skin is pink, burned from the sun. Faye drunk, her arms flung around two other woman, laughing at the camera. Her family, her friends.

And although part of him doesn't want to look, he finds himself switching to _his_ account, to the photos he hasn't looked at in over a year, because it hurts too much.

He falters over the picture of Daisy, of how she's smiling wryly at the camera, her head tilted to one side. "Is that your girlfriend?" Faye asks. He nods, but he can't speak.

He's too busy wondering whether Daisy had realised what a liar he was before she died. Because he'd never told her about the oncoming outbreak, never so much as warned her. He hadn't wanted to _worry_ her.

If he had told her, would she be alive right now? Would she have toughened up like Addy, intent on survival? Maybe she has. He doesn't know she's dead for sure. Maybe she's found a Mack of her own, and sometimes they sit and listen to his broadcasts, hating him.

Stuck out here, he'll never know.

"She's pretty."

He exhales. _This was a bad idea._ "Yeah, she was." He hopes she is alive. Even if she does hate him.

He wants to shut down the window, only now that he's looking, he can't stop himself. It's like probing a hole in a tooth.

It's the photograph of his family that really hurts. It's a posed shot, taken when he was maybe seven or eight. He can't remember exactly, but he can remember grinning goofily at the camera because he knew they'd be going out for pancakes later. He can't bring himself to look at the others; it'd hurt too much.

"Somebody was a cute kid," Faye says, glancing at him. "You all look so happy."

"Don't believe everything you see," he says, and then wishes he hadn't. Because they _had_ been happy, hadn't they? Compared to now they'd been fucking ecstatic. Back when Matty was alive. Before Simon became aware of just how much a failure he was in his father's eyes. He just thanks God that his Dad passed away before the arrest. Silver linings and all that shit.

"You look so much like your mum," she says, and he can't help it. His gaze flits away from the safety of his own face, to his mother. His heart aches. She's smiling proudly, her hand resting on Simon's shoulder. His broken, battered family, all dead now, except for him. Then his gaze snags on his brother's face.

"Holy crap."

"What is it?"

Simon doesn't answer right away. He leans forward, studying his brother's features, the line of his nose and his dark, serious eyes.

 _It can't be. How did I not see that?_

Faye is looking worried now, so he laughs uneasily. "I just... realised something."

"What?"

He tells her about Yuri. He frames it as a funny story, a 'ha ha,what an idiot' anecdote stemming from his own idiocy, his own mistakes, rather than what it really is: the closest he has ever come to dying, but even so Faye doesn't laugh. Only when he reaches the part where the hallucination born of his oxygen-starved brain is choking him, does he see a shiver run through her body. He glances down at her, sees her arm is prickled with goose-flesh. Her lips are pressed so tight they're almost bloodless.

"What's wrong?" he asks, voice low.

She exhales, gives a shaky laugh. "I have a... thing about not being able to breath. Irrational fear."

"Fear of clowns is irrational. Take it from me, being able to breathe is kinda fundamental."

"Go on. What happened?"

"There's not much more to tell. I figured out the air filter was malfunctioning." He darts a rueful look at her. "Golf ball. Got me and the dog outside and we were fine. But it was close."

"And Yuri?"

He shakes his head. "He wasn't real. He never was."

"You were hallucinating?"

"Yeah." Simon closes his eyes. "First person I'd seen in over a year and he wasn't even real. I drank vodka with him, Faye. We played video games. It was so real." And all the time he must have been stumbling around the base, talking to himself, slowly dying. The worst of it is it's all his own fault. The golf ball, the warning alarm that he knocked from the ceiling because it was distracting him – he'd almost gotten himself and his dog killed.

"And you want to know the really fun bit?" he continues, glancing down at her. "It was Matty all the time."

"Your brother?"

He nods. "And I didn't even realise. How did I not recognise my own brother?" There's a catch in his voice, the threat of unshed tears rising to the surface, and he swallows hard because the last thing he wants to do is cry in front of her. Not tonight.

She presses her hand against his cheek, turns his face towards her. "Simon, you were dying. You can't blame yourself for that."

He knocks back another vodka miniature, grimacing. "Still can't believe I didn't realise. He called it 'wodka'."

"'Wodka'?" She raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess, did his wessel crash off your starboard bow?"

"That's not funny."

"It's a _little_ bit funny."

And despite his misery, he laughs, runs his hand over his hair. "Yeah, okay. Maybe a little. But I did almost die, y'know."

Faye's wry smile slips. "Yeah." She stares at her own miniature. "You're right. It's not funny at all." She's silent for a long time. Simon wonders what's wrong with them both, why they can't keep the atmosphere from veering towards melancholy for longer than twenty minutes. _It's the alcohol,_ he thinks. They really need to calm it down, but with the darkness outside, the raging storms, the thought of not drinking seems worse.

"Did you ever wonder if I was a hallucination?" Faye asks finally. She's smiling again, but it's a question that sends a cold shiver down Simon's spine. How is he supposed to answer that? He glances at her, and when she sees his expression her smile falters and gradually slips from her face. "Oh." She looks much younger, vulnerable, and he's suddenly furious with himself. The one thing he's ever wanted and he's screwing it up. "Well, I guess that answers that. _Still_? Even now?"

He nods, closing his eyes because he can't bear the way she's looking at him. "Hardly ever. Only occasionally. When..." _When you're not there._ He forces a laugh. "And it's not like I actually believe it. Don't take it personally. Sometimes I wonder if _I'm_ real. What was it Poe wrote? 'All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.' Maybe none of this is real. Maybe I'm gonna wake up one day and I'm back in Tennessee and you're in England and neither of us will ever have set foot in the Arctic."

As they fall into a silence so awkward it's painful he drops his head back against the chair. Up here at the top of the world he can feel the world spinning on its axis. Then he realises it's probably just because he's drunk.

"They're still up there, y'know," he says, his voice dreamy.

"Who?"

"ISS. The International Space Station. They're still in orbit."

"Can you get in contact with them?"

A few moments pass before he understands what she means. _She doesn't know,_ he thinks. He closes his eyes. "They're _dead_ , Faye. Ran out of oxygen. Do you think bodies rot in space? They went up Pre-Z, so there's a chance they weren't infected. Wonder if they turned."

She doesn't answer. He keeps staring at the ceiling, thinks about getting another couple of miniatures from the cupboard. Maybe more than a couple. Then he heads a soft noise beside him, a little like a cough. _Is she laughing?_ When he looks at her he realises how wrong he is. She's not laughing at all: she's _crying_ , her shoulders shaking silently as she fights to hold back the sobs. Ugly tears wrench her face into a mask of misey and hopelessness.

 _Oh, no, no, no._

"Shit. Faye, I'm sorry." He swings his chair towards her, wraps her in his arms. "I'm so sorry. I'm drunk. Don't listen to anything I say."

Gradually her sobs subside. He rubs her back, thinking what an idiot he is. The one thing he was desperate for all through the long year of solitude and he's screwing it up. _Badly_.

A catalogue of his failures parades through his memory. Every mistake he's ever made, every failed first date, the camping trip where he couldn't bring himself to shoot a deer, and the look in his dad's eyes as he took the rifle back from him. All the people he's ever failed: Garnett, Daisy, Hammond. All the people dead because of _him_. The day of the arrest, as the FBI led him from his home in handcuffs, the metal biting tight into his wrists. The look in his mom's eyes when she came to visit him, the smile that didn't touch her heartbroken eyes.

A word written on a scrap of folded paper.

He's so tired of getting things wrong. Of screwing things up.

He grits his teeth, buries his face in Faye's hair. And then he goes very still. Because something about the way she's clinging to him makes him think that if he kissed her now, she wouldn't stop him. That maybe he could even take her to bed and fuck her and she _still_ wouldn't stop him.

He feels the brush of her hair on his cheek. She stiffens against him.

But she doesn't pull away.

 _Stop me,_ he thinks. _For God's sake, stop me before I do something we both regret._

He's drunk and she's drunk and right now he doesn't care about the consequences; he just wants to lose himself in something and since the alcohol isn't working any more, what's left but sex? Forget that she's so drunk it would basically be rape, forget the irreparable damage it would cause to their friendship; she's the only person he's seen in a year and a half, and the only _woman_ he's seen in much longer. He wants her.

He _needs_ this.

His hand tightens on the nape of her neck, his fingers biting just that little bit too deeply: enough to hurt. She draws in a frightened breath.

 _No._

He wrenches himself away, breathing hard. His heart batters at his ribcage. He stares up at his screens, barely able to see her face through the haze of the tears that fill his eyes. _Did I nearly–?_

He feels the sudden urge to pick up a golf club and smash every single screen. He's sick of this. Sick of darkness and shadows and watching the world burn.

He's sick of being alone.

Because he is alone. Faye's sitting right there beside him, but she might as well be on the other side of the world.

* * *

He'd been worried she might return to her old ways after the disastrous Christmas, avoiding him, slipping around the facility like a ghost, but instead he finds he's the one who retreats. Every time he looks at her he sees his failures, the way he almost took advantage of how drunk and frightened and distressed she was, and he hates himself. So he never stays long in the same room as her, because seeing her makes his heart ache so badly he thinks it might burst. Because he loves her and he just wants her to be happy. He doesn't want to hurt her.

He finds himself thinking of a book of fairytales he bought for his niece's birthday. A collection of stories by Hans Christian Anderson, beautifully illustrated and bound in cloth. She'd loved it, up until the point that Anna and Elsa had claimed her heart. He thinks about a story in it, The Snow Queen, and a chip of glass that lodges in a boy's heart.

When the perimeter alarm goes off he stares blankly at the screens, because he knows it means Faye has gone out again. She's out every day now, staying for longer and longer each time, and one of these days, he thinks, she's not going to come back at all.

Because of him.

 _Don't_ , he thinks, but it's like picking at a scab. He can't stop himself, and he leans forward, bringing up the image on the camera, panning it until he finds her image, and then he zooms in.

She has her back to the camera, slightly bent against the wind, not walking, not exercising; she's just standing motionless, staring out at the wasteland.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. The dog whines.

How can there be so much distance between them? Where has it come from, when just a while ago they were laughing and playing pool and even flirting just a little. What happened to that easy friendship, the one he'd built himself with slow, steady patience? Is he really going to let it crumble into dust?

 _Go and join her,_ he thinks, but when he stands he thinks about the shadow of the mountain again, the gaping hungry darkness, and he drops back down into the chair, his blood buzzing in his ears. Why is he so frightened? There's nothing there, no Zs lurking in the shadows. Maybe if they were somewhere less isolated he would be right to be afraid, but they are in the middle of fucking nowhere and out here there's no such thing as monsters.

The perimeter alarm goes off again. He glances at Faye to see whether she's striking back for home.

She hasn't moved.

He frowns, because that can't be right. If she hasn't moved she can't have set off the perimeter alarm, so why... His mouth is dry as he pans the camera slowly to the right. Because something has set off the alarm, and it isn't Faye.

There has to be something else out there.

The camera stops. Trembling, he stares at the image on his screen, thinking that maybe there is such a thing as monsters after all.

Even in the middle of nowhere.


	13. Moonstruck

**Chapter Thirteen**

 **Moonstruck**

 _I told you he was crazy._

Faye shakes back her hood. The moonlight is a living thing, liquid silver, spilling over the snow. Everything seems to glow from within. It's so beautiful she feels drunk with it; she half wants to strip off all her clothes and bathe naked in the strange unnatural light. She wants to find Simon and bring him outside, show him how beautiful this world can be if he would only open his eyes and see.

 _He's going to hurt you,_ Lars says.

"No, he's not." But she wonders. Because when she closes her eyes she can still feel the pinch of his fingers on her neck, and see the self-loathing in his eyes when he wrenched himself away from her.

Every time she thinks she knows him, he says or does something, and she realises she barely knows him at all.

A cloud crosses the moon, plunging her into darkness.

Maybe this was a mistake, all of it. She could have held out for longer on the boat. She would have died eventually, but she's starting to wonder if that wasn't the better option. She doesn't think she can stand watching another man fall apart under the pressure of the polar night.

Simon had seemed fine at first. A little bit cracked maybe, but who wouldn't be under the circumstances? Once her shock and initial panic had passed, she hadn't seen him as a threat, because how could she? He was sweet and quirky and uncomfortable in his skin, watching her shyly when he thought she wasn't looking. No threat at all, she'd thought.

But things are different in the darkness.

Hearing him screaming in the night she'd been seized by the urge to go to him. He isn't Lars. This would be her decision. A genuine choice, not the façade it had been when Lars had made the decision for her, silencing any protests she might have had with hard, brutal kisses.

Only she sees Simon's eyes, the way he retreats when he sees her coming. He's avoiding her, and she _can't_ ,because all at once she's back on the boat, smothered in the darkness of her bunk. She-

Her skin prickles. She's being watched.

At first she thinks it's Simon, and she glances around, hoping that he's come to join her. He's been spending too much time inside; it worries her. But he's not there and neither is the dog.

 _You're imagining it, Faye._

No. No, she isn't.

Because she can smell it now, a sour stink like bags of rubbish left out in the sun too long. Fear prickles up her spine. She holds her breath as she turns in a slow circle, sinking up to her ankles in the deep snow. There's nothing there.

And then she sees that there is.

Her vision shifts like an optical illusion, shadows on the snow merging to form the shape of a bear, hunkered by the side of one of the out-buildings. Watching her.

It's already dead. And she doesn't have the rifle.

Through the cold terror that grips her, she wonders when she stopped bringing it out with her. She'd been so weary, exhausted from hauling herself through blizzards and gales and fog so dense she might lose herself if she strayed too far from the base. The rifle was just one more thing to struggle with, another burden to carry, and after a while she stopped bringing it out with her.

She is so fucked.

The bear is between her and the main building, and although death and while the cold might have slowed it down a bit it can still move faster than her, especially over the snow.

 _Stupid, stupid,_ she thinks. What had Lars taught her? Never to go out without a rifle. No matter what.

The bear lumbers out, a shambling ruin of a thing. Once it would have been beautiful and terrible, but now it's a hulking mass of rotting flesh, its fur matted with gore. One of its front paws is a blackened bloody stump.

She whirls and runs, struggling through the snow. Behind her the bear bellows, a hoarse, unnatural sound. A hungry sound. She glances back, sees it gaining on her, moving impossibly fast. How can something dead move so fast?

And then it's almost on her. She's too terrified to look back, but the stink of it is all she can smell. She veers to the right, scrambling blindly as her ankle almost twists beneath her. She has to get inside. She has to get to safety.

Ahead of her she sees a building with a walkway on the second floor. A ladder,encircled by a cage of metal _._ She glances back, sees the bear looming too close, and she sprints as fast as she can, twisting away when the bear gets too close. She slams into the ladder so hard it knocks all the breath from her body and she scrambles up, praying that the metal framework will protect her.

Wishful thinking.

The bear rears up, and Faye is enveloped in a fug of moist stinking air. She flattens herself against the ladder. Its white eyes are clotted like rancid milk. It pushes its paw through the gaps in the metal, clawing at her. Trying to snag her parka. The rungs press painfully into her chest as she fights to make herself smaller, but she knows its only a matter of time because the bear is reaching further inside, snarling with rage and hunger.

Lars is screaming at her from the walkway. _Up. You have to go up._

But she can't, because the moment she moves the bear will get her.

 _It'll get you anyway, you stupid bitch. Go!_

She whimpers, casts a frightened glance at the bear, tightens her grip on the ladder. _Okay,_ she thinks. _One, two–_

A claw snags her parka. She has time to gasp, and then she's jerked backwards, slams so hard into the metal she almost blacks out. And then she's dangling, scrabbling for purchase, while the bear tries to drag her out through the metal. Hot saliva on the back of her neck. The hood of the parka bunching tight around her throat, so tight she can hardly breathe.

The bear shakes her like a rag doll, slams her body repeatedly against the metal, and she screams in fear and panic and pain. Her head strikes against the metal and everything goes dizzy.

When the gunshot rings out, she doesn't understand what it is. The bear roars, rearing back, wrenching its claws free from her parka with the sound of tearing cloth. Faye clings to the ladder, panting. Through her terror she sees Simon, cold and shivering in his camouflage jacket, his face full of fear and panic and determination. He has the rifle in his hands, and he's backing away, bringing it up to take another shot.

He's too close, and she can see his stance is all wrong. He hasn't got a fucking prayer.

She howls in fury, wedges her body against the metalwork, and kicks through at the bear. It rears towards her, roaring, and she screams at him to shoot it, shoot it _now!_ The bear's muzzle is inches from her own.

He aims, fires, hitting the bear's shoulder. It bellows in a rage, and swings its paw in a roundhouse blow, smashing into the ladder. Into Faye's face.

She drops, lands on her knees hard on the snow, coughing and gasping. She spits up blood, feels a loose tooth in her mouth. The bear roars in fury, unable to comprehend where its prey has gone. As it rears around, Faye rolls onto her back, dragging herself backwards. The bear hears her, and drops to a crouch, snarling as it advances.

Even through her daze, she hears Simon screams her name. _I'm leaving you alone again,_ she thinks. _Sorry._

She's going to die.

 _And it's okay,_ she thinks. _I'm okay with dying._

Maybe she would have preferred a different way, but this is okay. It's not drowning, or the choking inevitability of hands clamped around her throat. At least this'll be quick, and chances are the bear will savage her enough that she won't turn. She doesn't want to turn.

She just wishes she had the time all over again. She would have done things differently.

The bear's head bursts apart in a mist of red gore.

For a few seconds she lies there, breathing hard. It's Simon who moves first, dropping to his knees beside her, gathering her into his arms. He presses his lips to her forehead. "Shit, Faye. I thought I'd lost you. I thought you were dead."

"Not dead." It's about all she can manage. She coughs blood onto the back of her hand. It looks black in the moonlight. She's hurt and aching but she's alive.

"It's okay," she tries to tell him. It hurts to talk.

"Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head, wincing as he helps her up. "Just bruises, I think." She _hopes_. "Maybe a cracked rib or two." She leans against him, feels him shivering in his thin jacket. She glances back at the bear, feels nausea surging through her. "Let's get inside."

As they skirt the edge of the building, she gives a bark of laughter. "Hey, Simon? You just killed a freaking zombie polar bear," she says.

He shoots her a startled look, then grins. "Who's the badass now?" he mutters, and she leans into him, wincing at the ache in her ribs, hardly able to believe she's alive. Bruised and battered, and oh god, she's going to be in _so_ much pain tomorrow, but _alive_.

Thanks to him.


	14. Bruised

****A/N: This chapter contains some sexual content as well as spoilers for S1E12, Murphy's Law.  
****

 **As always, comments of all kinds are hugely appreciated, so please R &R. **

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen  
Bruised**

In his dream the bear is back. It towers over him, half its skull sheered away. Its brain has been obliterated, but somehow it's still alive and it has found him. His shoulder is a mass of agony from the recoil of the rifle. No more cartridges left and the dark is closing in.

He doesn't know where Faye is. He backs away, trying to circle back towards the NSA facility, but it's too far; he'd never make it in time and he still hasn't found Faye.

He can't leave her alone again, outside in the cold and dark.

He screams her name and the bear bear bellows in response. It rears up, clawing at itself. Simon watches in horror as the bear rips its chest open, parting its flesh like a coat.

Faye is inside. Naked and smeared with blood and clumps of dirty yellow fat. She steps towards him, shaking off the ragged remnants of the bear like she's shrugging off a cloak. Her hair is tattered and ragged around her face

As she moves out into the light, her bare feet blue against the snow, he can see that she's dead. Her eyes are whited over, but there is a cold intelligence in her face.

And when she holds her hand out to him – oh Christ, he takes a step towards her, and then another. No matter how much he fights the urge to go to her he can't stop himself. When he's close enough, when he can smell the rot in her flesh and see the blackened veins that trace her translucent skin, her chapped, purplish lips part, and just for a second he thinks she's going to kiss him.

Until he sees her teeth.

* * *

Simon screams, jerking awake in bed. The blankets wind around his legs, and he thrashes in the darkness trying to free himself, before he realises where he is. Even so, it takes a while for his heart to slow its hammering pace.

"Just a dream," he mutters, covering his face with both hands. "Just–"

Something moves in the shadows and he cries out again, fumbling on the table for his gun.

"It's me, Simon." Faye comes towards him, holding up her hands. "I'm sorry I scared you. I heard you screaming."

He exhales, a long shaky breath. "Just a dream," he says. He wants to turn the light on, but he keeps thinking about her eyes in the dream, filled with rage and hunger and a knowing gleam. And he's afraid that if he turns the light on, that's exactly what he'll see. "A bad one."

She perches on the edge of his bunk. "Would it help to talk about it?"

"No!" He shudders. "I... don't really remember it." _Liar._

"Okay." She shifts as if about to get up, and suddenly Simon is desperate for her to stay. He doesn't want to be alone, not tonight. Not after that dream.

"Faye..." Only he can't say it. The words catch in his throat. He stares at the pale outline of her face in the gloom and says nothing.

"Do you want me to stay?" Her voice is soft, filled with an emotion that he can't pinpoint, but which he thinks might be pain.

He closes his eyes. "Only if you want to," he says, knowing that she will get up and leave.

But she doesn't. Instead, she lifts the blanket and slips in beside him.

At first he doesn't know what to do. His higher brain function seems to have deserted him, but then she wriggles closer, and he opens his arms, wraps them around her.

Dazed, he lies like that for a moment, taking nothing but comfort from her proximity and warmth and the way she seems to nestle into him, like their bodies were designed to fit together. The awful dream is a distant memory, something that happened in another lifetime.

So what if nothing happens between them? _This is enough,_ he thinks.

Only then it isn't. She tilts her head back to kiss him, and suddenly it's not enough. It could never be enough. She's like a drug; one taste and he wants more.

He groans hungrily, erection straining in his boxer shorts as he rolls towards her. He slides his hand up under her t-shirt, over her stomach and up, to cup her right breast. She flinches, but when he jerks his hand away she shakes her head and draws his hand back to her breast again. "I'm a bit sore. Just be gentle."

Okay, he can do that.

She squirms, sitting up, but only to inch her way gingerly out of the t-shirt. He helps her, wincing at the ugly flowers of bruises that have blossomed on her chest and back. His fingers hover over them, barely grazing her skin; he's no longer sure he wants to touch her. "Oh, Faye."

"Just bruises. They look worse than they are. And I've taken shitloads of painkillers so I'm okay." Even so the smile she flashes him is tinged with pain. "Told you I was tough as nails."

"Are you sure you want to–" He breaks off as she pulls him in for another kiss, pressing him back. His erection, caught in his boxer shorts, presses against her thigh. She reaches down, and he groans as she grasps him. It's too much. It's been too long since he last–

"Oh God." He buries his face in her neck, his body bucking as he comes in her hand. Too soon. Too fucking soon.

He lies still, burning in embarrassment and shame. "Sorry," he tells her, and she shushes him, places a gentle kiss on his mouth.

Cautiously, he places a questing hand on her stomach, hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of her sweatpants. She catches hold of his wrist, and he pulls it away, disappointed until she settles down beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. Pressed close in the narrow bunk, they both fall into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

He's sure that when he wakes up she'll be gone, but she's still sleeping beside him, sprawled on her back and precariously close to falling off the bunk. He kisses the top of her head, and gets out of the bunk, grimacing at the bruises darkening on her body. She's lucky to be alive.

He showers and shaves, catches the eyes of his reflection in the mirror, unable to stop himself from grinning. In the stores, he digs out a packet of condoms and pockets three or four. Not that he's getting his hopes up, but just in case...

He's still grinning when he returns to his room. Faye is out of bed, trying to pull her t-shirt back on. Her movements are stiff, awkward, and only then does his grin fade, because with the light on the bruises look much worse. His gaze drops to her feet, pale and bare on the concrete floor, and the dream image of her bare feet against the snow flashes through his mind. He shudders, forces his gaze back up, over her breasts to the t-shirt bunched around her upper chest and arms. Slowly, he moves over to her, helps her pull the t-shirt down, smoothing the cotton down over her waist.

She tilts her head back, smiling up at him. "Any more dreams?"

"None," he answers truthfully. At least none that he can remember. He doesn't think he's slept that well since before the end of the world. Maybe even longer. And then like an idiot he's blushing again. "I'm sorry about last night," he says. "It's... it's been a while since..."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Simon, will you stop apologising?"

He kisses her. He's not quite sure how it happens, but one moment she's smiling at him and the next his hands are buried in her hair. When he pulls away, she's still smiling. "I'll do better next time," he says, emboldened.

"Might just hold you to that," she says, and he laughs breathlessly.

* * *

And just when Simon is starting to think that everything is going to be okay, he has Murphy to thank for reminding him how quickly everything can turn to shit.

"We lost Murphy."

Three little words that bring him crashing down to a cold, painful reality. That remind him how helpless he actually is. Because Murphy's a dick, and apparently keeping a top-secret mission top-secret is less important than bragging about being the saviour of humanity. If he's gotten himself killed, it's game over. Might as well pack up his computers and go home. And everything Simon has sacrificed will have been for nothing.

But luckily Murphy's not dead, and it doesn't take much to track him down. Asshole he may be, but he's smart enough to seek out a CCTV camera along the route.

Faye comes in, freshly showered and smelling of shampoo. She perches on his desk, then does a double-take at the sight of an angry-looking Murphy taking a piss. "What's going on?"

"Murphy's been kidnapped," he tells her.

"Oh bloody hell," she says, hopping straight up again. "I'll put the kettle on."

And despite everything, Simon can't help grinning. "You Brits. That's your answer for everything, huh?"

"That or, fuck it, let's go to the pub, and sadly _that's_ out of the question."

When she's gone, his smile fades. Even in the relatively short time since he saw Murphy in the video link in the CIA bunker, the man's appearance has declined. He's looking less and less healthy, less and less _human_. They're going to need to get him to California fast.

Simon's gaze flits to the people behind Murphy, the strangers standing beside the van and he wonders who needs his help more: Murphy, or the three kidnappers?

And while, he's caught up in the thrill of being needed, hardly aware of Faye's comforting presence, for the first time in months, he gets a sniff of Dr Merch.

* * *

He's found her. In Colorado. He doesn't know what the hell is in Colorado or what Dr Merch would be doing there, but he's found her. The satellite feed and CCTV footage shows a few hunkered buildings, a metal shed with a roll up-door. A group of Zs.

Nothing that stands out. Nothing that looks important. There's no reason for him to think there's anything there, and that's exactly the reason why he knows there _has_ to be something there. Buildings in the real world never look so innocuous, so dull and bland, not unless they've been deliberately designed that way.

He's got a sixth sense for shit like this; he knows when people are trying to hide things from him.

"This is it," he murmurs. "This has to be it."

So much for California.

Mouth dry, he takes a closer look. If he hadn't already been sure, the signal convinces him. It's not until he checks the old civil defence frequency that he finds the message. It's a Teletype signal, encrypted and, until he can break the code, unreadable, but it's _her._

He almost yelps when Murphy's face pops up on his screen. Smart man; he's found a laptop still connected to the grid. He's alive and he's angry, and close up he looks even less human than before. Simon's almost relieved when he's gone.

He hadn't realised it, but through the conversation with Murphy he'd been holding his breath. Something is not right with that man and it makes Simon deeply uneasy. There's a promise of violence in Murphy's eyes, and it triggers the primal part of his brain, the bit that governs fight and flight. He knows Murphy's record backwards; he was in prison for postal fraud, and while he's a thieving bastard who might have happily robbed his own mother blind, he's never shown any sign of violent behaviour. Until now. Granted, the apocalypse changes people – it's changed Simon, after all – but the possibility that it might be the effect of the vaccine is one that cannot be ignored.

And if that's the case, maybe it's all hopeless. Maybe Operation Bitemark is a waste of everyone's fucking time. Maybe Simon has thrown away his life up here and is risking plunging the world into a catastrophe much worse than the one they're already facing. Could there be something worse than the zombie apocalypse? It doesn't seem like it could be possible, but if there's one thing Simon knows, it's that things can always get worse.

"Was that Murphy?" Faye asks. "Is he okay?"

 _He's a long way from okay._ "I think so."

On the bright side, Murphy has given him an in. Now he knows the bastard's location it's a simple matter to follow the rabbit hole back to wherever it is the kidnappers have taken him. The result isn't what he was expecting.

"Mesa Pharmaceuticals? I think I'm starting to understand what this kidnapping business is all about. Damn apocalypse. What happened to the good ol' days of robbing casinos in Vegas?" He taps at the keyboard, hacking into the CCTV, bringing up an array of camera feeds. His stomach clenches at the sight of Murphy with a gun pointed at his head, but there isn't a damn thing he can do.

And then Warren and her crew arrive and it all descends into chaos. The Zs swarm in. Faye's hand tightens on his shoulder as they watch the ensuing battle. "Jesus," she mutters, meeting his gaze. Simon's mouth is dry; the thought of being trapped like that fills him with a dark, suffocating horror. He can't think what's worse; being pitted against Zs or living people. How do Warren and her crew do it? How do they go on surviving. He doesn't think he'd be able to do what they do.

He's never seen them in action before, only the aftermath. He'd known they were tough, but this is beyond anything he could have imagined. Is this what people have to be like in the apocalypse now? As much as he hates his isolation, maybe he's better off where he is.

The female kidnapper drops, felled by a Z in the ragged remnants of a cop uniform, but just as he thinks it's over, he sees Murphy at the top of a set of stairs, a gun to his head again. The last kidnapper. "Shit," Simon breathes, sitting forward. "Oh no..."

To have come so far, to be _so close_ to finding Dr Merch, only to have Murphy die like this, in such a stupid, pointless way. Murphy turns to him and on the CCTV image, Simon can see his mouth moving.

"What's he saying?" Faye asks, and Simon flings up his hands helplessly.

"I don't know. I can't get sound on this damn system." But there has to be something he can do, some way he can help. Otherwise, what's the fucking point of him? He can't just sit and watch while the world ends. That can't be all there is.

Faye makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. On the screen something is happening. The kidnapper is pulling away while Murphy swaggers down the stairs. He looks dangerous, not quite human, and behind him the kidnapper is raising his gun, pressing the barrel up under his chin.

They flinch as he pulls the trigger, his skull splattering backwards in a monochrome burst of black liquid. _What the fuck just happened?_

"Simon," Faye whispers. "What the _hell?_ "

"It... He..." He flings up his hands helplessly. "There's a rational explanation." And yeah, okay, maybe there is, but in a world where the dead come back to life, 'rational' doesn't carry the same weight it used to.

"What, like he just randomly decided to kill himself?"

"No," Simon agrees, unhappily. He stares at the crumpled corpse, the black smear of blood on the floor. He can't bear to look any more. He clicks back out of the CCTV system. "Murphy did it. I don't know how, but he did it. He made that man shoot himself."

"Psychic zombies," Faye mutters, and he nods slowly, face pale.

 _What the hell was in that vaccine, Dr Merch?_ "There's definitely something more going on here." There is, as far as he can tell, only one thing to be glad about: for Warren and her crew, Colorado is a hell of a lot closer than California.

* * *

He's exhausted; it's been a long and tiring day, and his shoulders are aching with the strain of eight hours of sitting at his desk, but still no time to rest for him. He needs to get in touch with Warren and update her as a matter of urgency; the image of that helpless man bringing the gun up is one that he will never forget. Luckily Warren feels the same way, because she's managed to charge the satellite phone just enough to get through to him.

It's not all good news. Cassandra, the pretty young Asian girl is injured and Murphy is acting weird. _Yeah,_ he thinks. _No freaking kidding._ He feels the urge to burst into hysterical laughter, but he fights it back, since hearing him falling apart will do absolutely fuck all for the group's morale. He needs them to trust him, now more than ever.

So he tells her about Colorado, fights the rush of frustration when she questions whose orders these are. Doesn't she realise it's just him? There is no one else, no one feeding him lines, telling him what to do. He's on his own, picking his way through across the wreckage of the apocalypse, hardly able to see a foot in front of him. They're damn lucky he's managed to get them this far.

But he can't just leave her hanging; she's waiting for an answer, and he needs to make it a good one. He wonders why the signal never cuts out when he wants it to. So he lies again. Tells her that Dr Merch will definitely be there to meet them.

And it's not like he's completely lying.

He knows Dr Merch was at the lab at some point, and she's passed through Colorado. Chances are she's there.

Luckily she buys it.

 _Screw this,_ he thinks when she's gone. Only a little further to push and then the creepy bastard will be someone else's responsibility. _Serves you right, Dr Merch._

He rolls his shoulders, stretching out the aching muscles, and goes to find Faye.

She's in the rec-room, reading a Stephen King novel, her bare feet tucked up beside her. on the sofa. The dog is beside her, fast asleep, twitching in the grip of dreams. She's laid out two MREs for them both, as well as a couple of bottles of beer, and he sinks down at the table. He can't bring himself to look at her, not just yet. The air feels too charged with what they've seen. With the image of Murphy killing a man.

He thinks if he meets her gaze, he might not be able to stop himself from crying, and if that happens he's not sure he'll ever be able to stop. He takes a swig of the beer, and after a little while, feels a little bit stronger. Enough to look at her and smile.

"They're okay," he says. "Heading to Colorado."

"Well, that's good," she says, although it sounds like she isn't sure whether it is a good thing or not. "But what's in Colorado?"

He leans back. "I'm not sure yet. Something, that's for damn sure. I'll do some more digging tomorrow." He knows when someone's hiding something from him. But right now: "Can we take a break? I haven't eaten anything other than pork rinds in eight hours."

She slaps the book closed, grinning. "Thought you'd never ask. I'm starving." It's _The Stand,_ he realises, and he almost wants to laugh again, because there's just no way they're ever getting away from the apocalypse.

"You should have started without me," he says as she pulls the chair opposite out and sits down. Her movements are stiff and awkward, and he watches her, wondering how much pain she's in. "You didn't have to wait."

"I wanted to wait," she says, pulling open the packaging. She pulls a face at the contents and he laughs, pushing a beer across to her. She sips it, and they both start to eat. And for a little while it's just the two of them sitting around the table, talking about their lives before. But they're both tired, both drained and weary, haunted by ghosts and loneliness, and they can't sustain it for long. They trail off, staring into their separate worlds. Faye picks at the label on the beer bottle, while Simon remembers a black spray of blood, a body crumpling beneath the weight of a bullet, and the look in Murphy's eyes as he came down the stairs.

He closes his eyes, but it doesn't help. He can still see Murphy's face.

 _Murphy murdered a man,_ he thinks _. Right in front of me. What the hell are we doing here?_

When he opens his eyes, he sees that Faye's expression is just as haunted as his own. She's staring over his shoulder, looking at something that isn't there. He murmurs her name and she glances at him. As he watches her, something shifts in her expression. The fear fades, and she stands up, holding her hand out to him.

He takes it, entwining his fingers in hers, and lets her lead him to bed.


	15. Cocoon

**A/N: Some sexual content in this chapter. Please note I've uploaded a new version of chapter 14 with a bit of a plot change. If you read that before the 8th of September, you may want to reread, but to summarise, Warren and her crew are now heading to Colorado.**

 **As always, comments of all kinds are hugely appreciated. I hope you're enjoying this as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen  
Cocoon**

Sex helps, a little. Okay, a _lot_.

Afterwards they lie in his bunk, curled together in a warm cocoon, the blankets wrapped around them. The first time was blink-and-you'd-miss-it brief. The sensation of being inside her had been too much. Too overwhelming.

He acquitted himself better the second time, or so he'd like to think. Judging by the noises Faye made, the way she moved against him, her breath hot against his neck, she would agree.

And now the wind howls outside, stirring up a flurry of sleet that strikes at the window like flung gravel.

He traces her collarbone, the veins that thread beneath the surface of pale skin. He's trying to dispel the image of her naked and rotting, draped in the carcass of a bear. He kisses the freckles on her shoulders, and pushes back her hair to find an ugly jagged scar hidden in the hairline above her temple. She shakes her hair back, told him she'd got it falling off her bike as a child. It looks more recent than that to him, but by then she's kissing him again and the urge to ask questions is gone.

Faye nestles closer, her breath warm against his neck, and he feels a shiver of excitement at how close she is, at the smoothness of her skin. For the first time in a long while he feels content. The shadows have been dispelled. For now.

He runs his finger along the curve of her shoulder and she turns her head to nip at it, before dropping back down with a long weary sigh.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks her.

"Murphy."

"Okay. Um..."

She grins. "Sorry. But you did ask."

"I did, didn't I? Not while we were..." He's joking, sort of, but still feels a rush of relief when she bursts into laugher.

" _N_ _o._ "

"Thank God for that," he says, with feeling.

She gives him a wicked look. "Although having said that he does have compelling eyes. Maybe it's the mind control thing." Then she shudders. "Actually, pretend I didn't say that. That's a horrible thought."

"He is one creepy bastard."

"No fucking kidding," she says. "But I feel sorry for him." And then she hesitates, her hand resting lightly on his chest. When she speaks again her voice is soft, cautious. "Was his offer to test the vaccine really voluntary?"

Simon shakes his head. "Forced volunteer. The president signed the order."

"'Forced volunteer'? What a delightful bit of doublespeak that is."

"I know, but it's not all bad. If he hadn't taken the vaccine he'd be dead now. The prison was swarmed. It's only because Hammond got him out that he's alive. Aside from Murphy and Dr Merch, everybody died."

"It still wasn't his choice. And who's to say that what's happening to him is any better?"

"Than death? It has to be, right?"

"You sure about that? After what we saw today? After he–"

"Don't, Faye." He closes his eyes, because that's the last thing he wants to think about. He doesn't want that image spoiling the first decent thing that's happened to him in longer than he can remember. He's still too fragile; there's still a risk it could turn into something twisted. This is the happiest and the healthiest he's felt in over a year. Thinking of Murphy is poison.

"Sorry."

"Can we talk about something else?" he asks. "This isn't how I pictured this going."

To his surprise, she laughs. "You're right. I'm an idiot. And I sincerely promise not to talk about Murphy while we're in bed together in the future."

 _In the future._ He likes the sound of that. "Want to start over?" he asks, grinning.

She raises her eyebrow. "Really? _Again_?" But he's already kissing her, the length of his body pressing against hers as he thinks that he could quite happily spend the rest of his life curled up in bed with her, kissing and making love. Maybe even sleeping occasionally, but right now he figures that's optional. He'd never realised quite how much he missed having someone in his bed.

Faye gives a long throaty chuckle and slides out from under him. She straddles him, leans down to kiss him, her hair falling in a curtain around his face. As she rolls her hips in a slow, grinding circle, he groans, running his hands over her thighs. She takes his hand, drawing it between her legs, but just as he's about to touch her, something scrabbles at the door.

They both freeze, then relax when they hear a whine.

It's the damn dog.

"Really?" Simon says in frustration, dropping his head back against the pillow. "Now?"

"We could just ignore him," Faye suggests, but even as she speaks there's another burst of scratching and the _ooh-ooh-ooooh_ of a heartbroken husky. They share a rueful look, and she rolls off him.

"Shall I let him in?" Simon asks, and she nods. She props her head up on her hand and watches him walk to the door. He tries not to feel self-conscious, tries not to feel the weight of her gaze on his naked body. He bends to make a fuss of the dog, but it bounds straight past him and leaps onto the bunk, right into Simon's recently vacated space.

"Okay, what the _hell_? Move over, dog."

Faye's no help; she's laughing, scratching at the husky's fur. "I don't think he's budging."

"Oh, he'll budge," Simon says. "Remember me, boy, the guy who saved your life?"

The husky regards him with mournful eyes the colour of ice. Gently, Simon levers him up and pushes him further down the bed. Faye sprawls out into the space, and Simon mock-glares at her. "Do I have to push you over too?" He squeezes in, forcing his feet down under the weight of the husky.

She rolls onto her side, rests her head on his shoulder and he kisses her forehead. "We have got to do something about this bed," she says, laughing.

Simon's heart skips, because doesn't that mean that whatever this is will be an ongoing thing, and not just a one-off interlude to chase away the weight of the endless night? God, he hopes so. If he had to go back to sleeping in an empty bed, he's not sure he could cope. Not after tonight.

"Maybe we could push the bunks together," Faye muses.

"Nope. Bolted to the floor." He fans her hair across his chest. "I quite like this anyway. It's cosy."

"Cosy or not, I think I might actually kill for a king-size bed." She shifts, wriggling against him, and Simon holds his breath at the touch of her skin against his. "One with a comfortable mattress."

"A hot bath," Simon says dreamily.

"A meal in a restaurant."

"Yeah. Somewhere that doesn't do steak. Never thought I'd say this, but I'm sick of steak." He closes his eyes, imagining the clamour and thrum of people crowding the tables around them. Waiters hustling for tips, topping up wine, and Faye opposite him, sleek and glossy in an unnecessarily low-cut dress.

"Beer gardens in the summer," Faye's saying. "Watching Wimbledon with a jug of Pimms." She sighs. "I don't even _like_ bloody tennis."

Simon turns his head to look at her. _You,_ he thinks. _Right here and now._

But he doesn't say it, because he doesn't what this even is, or how she feels about him. She likes him as a friend, he's sure of that, but whether it's anything more, he has no idea.

She's smiling back at him, her eyes tender, but his stomach knots. He wishes he has the guts to tell her how perfect tonight has been after the long exhausting day, after the ugly flash of truth about Murphy, after the long, unending darkness. He wishes he could tell her how much he's wanted this, the two of them together finally, and how much it will hurt him if it comes to an end.

They've come so far since those days when she first arrived, frantic with fear and loneliness. When she could hardly bear to be in the same room as him, when she watched him with hard, mistrustful eyes.

But he can't do that to her. He can't put that kind of pressure on her shoulders.

She deserves better than that.


	16. Well, Hello, Dr Merch

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who's reading this. I really do hope you're enjoying this story. I don't get a lot of reviews (well, look at me whinging), so if you have the time, please do leave a comment. Even if it's just to tell me to stop whinging. ;)**

 **Again, thanks for reading.**

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen**

 **Well, Hello, Dr Merch**

Faye rubs her eyes, glances at the natural light alarm clock on the chair Simon uses as a bedside table. It's starting to glow, lighting the room with a soft, gentle light. Still early through. She rubs sleep from her eyes, then settles back down. Simon is still asleep, looking younger than his years, young enough to give her a moment's pause and wonder what the hell she thinks she's doing.

She dismisses the thought quickly. They both needed this. She only has to think of how he reacted to the oncoming darkness, the shadows around his eyes, to know she's done the right thing. This is okay. This is good.

"Just a pity about the bloody dog," she murmurs.

The husky whines, looks up at her.

"Yes, I'm talking about you," she says, affectionately, reaching out to scratch his ears.

At the sound of her voice, Simon stirs. She settles back down, nestling into him, and half-asleep he responds, nuzzling at her neck.

She rolls over, kisses him long and hard and deep. "Hey," he says when she finally pulls away. He looks pleased, but perhaps a little startled to find her still in his bed, as if he'd thought she might have been a dream.

"Morning."

He stifles a yawn, glancing at the clock, then lies down, pulling her close. "Too early."

"Mm." She closes her eyes, feeling her stomach gnawing with hunger. She'd kill to be able to stroll down to the local café with him: full English breakfast, a mug of milky coffee. "What's the plan for today?"

"Nothing," he murmurs into her hair. "Just gonna stay here like this."

"All day?"

"All day." He groans. "Except I need to look into that location in Colorado. Figure out what's there. Maybe check in with Operation Bitemark too. It's been a while since I put out an emergency broadcast. And I should really try to track down Addy and Mack."

"It never bloody ends does it?"

"It will soon, Faye." There's excitement in his voice. She rolls over to face him, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. He runs his hand over her waist, but his eyes are elsewhere, thinking, planning. "It's _there_ ," he tells her. "I know it is. It's hidden, but it's there. It won't stay hidden for long."

She can't help smiling. It's the confidence in his voice, the excitement that lights up his eyes. The old Simon is back, the one from the summer, before the onset of darkness broke him down.

He smiles in response, looking self-conscious. "What?"

She shakes her head, cupping his stubbled cheek. "I'll get breakfast."

"In a minute," he murmurs, kissing her. "Right now, I'm busy doing this."

It's another hour before they finally climb out of bed. Faye showers and gets dressed, then heads to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She grabs a couple of pastries and carries the lot through to the control room, where he's already working, typing rapidly at the keyboard, his eyes intent on the screen. He barely looks up as she sets his tea down.

"Anything yet?"

He nods, lips pressed tight together with excitement. "I was right, Faye. There _is_ something there."

"Oh?"

"It's still on the grid. Not sure how. Must be some sort of internal generator keeping the mainframe running, but that much power suggests a supercomputer, maybe a gene sequencer." He glances up at her, his eyes shining with excitement. "It's a lab. But I don't think it's legit, like Mount Wilson. This is something else, and their security is like nothing I've seen before."

"Can you get past it?"

He gives her a look, as if to say ' _please_.' "Just give me a minute." He swings over to the other monitor, brings up another window, typing quickly. Faye watches, baffled, as lines of code stream past. He devours the pastry in two bites, then washes it down with a swig of tea.

"How the hell do you know how to do all this?" she wonders aloud.

"Misspent youth. And, we're in. Ha!" He grins up at her and she shakes her head, unable to stop herself from smiling.

"Now you're just showing off."

He turns back to the screen. "Accessing the mainframe. I freaking knew it. It _is_ a lab."

"Any sign of Dr Merch?"

"Umm..." He taps at the keyboard, brings up a feed of CCTV cameras. There are corpses in some of the shots, bodies slumped at tables or stretched out on the ground, bullet wounds visible on their foreheads. Simon and Faye share a grimace, and then he's leaning forward, typing again.

"Looks like the system's been accessed recently," he says, frowning. "Within the last few days. The place isn't totally dead." He pauses, grimacing. "Sorry, poor choice of words."

"Dr Merch?"

"Could be."

She leans closer, peering at one of the CCTV shots. A group of corpses are slumped around a table, party hats perched on their lolling skulls. Judging by the half-eaten cake, it looks like they've been celebrating someone's birthday. "Those bodies look fresh," she says, leaning on his chair.

"No, I don't think so," he tells her, glancing at one of the other monitors. "I think the whole lab is sterile. I'll bet they got some heavy-duty decontamination systems in place. They could have been there for years. Maybe since day one."

"So they're just lying there, slowly rotting," she says. "That's so sad."

He squeezes her hand, before returning to the keyboard. "Let's see if I can hack into their files," he says. "Find out what they were up to."

Faye sits back and sips her coffee. She likes watching him work. It's hard not to get sucked into his enthusiasm, his obvious joy in what he does. She feels the same way about her time out in the Arctic, watching the terns screech and wheel around the face of an ice cliff.

When he's working, his body fills with tension, his eyes brighten and fill with confidence, his long, elegant fingers moving over the keyboard with an easy grace. He's no longer an unhappy boy, uncomfortable in his own skin, haunted by loneliness and bad dreams. Just for a little while he looks _happy_.

 _This is where he belongs,_ she thinks. She wonders what he would be doing now if it weren't for the apocalypse.

"Holy crap," he mutters, frowning. "Yeah, they were working on the ZN1 virus all right, but..." He clicks the mouse, brings up a video of a screeching squirrel monkey. Its eyes are red, its teeth bared with rage.

Faye leans forwards, frowning. Wait, wait, wait. Look at that date. These videos are from before anyone was infected. How can that be?" she says. "If no one knew about it..."

He glances at her, grimly. "Oh, they knew about it," he says. "Trust me, they knew about it long before anyone else did."

"And they kept it quiet? How could anyone keep something like this a secret?"

A look of disquiet crosses his face. He looks away from her, staring hard at the monitor, his expression grim.

"Simon?" Faye swallows. "When did _you_ find out?"

He stops typing, and sits still for a moment, his gaze on the desk. When he looks at her his eyes are dark, filled with bitter anger. She winces, but it's not her he's angry at. "Pre-Z," he admits. "About a year before day one."

She sucks in a breath. "But–"

He spreads his hands. "I know."

"And you didn't... How could you bear to keep something like that a secret? How many people died because they didn't have a clue what was going on?"

He flinches, closes his eyes. "I thought I was doing the right thing," he says. When he opens his eyes again he looks desperately sad. "I thought I was helping to save the world."

"Jesus," she mutters. Although maybe she should have known. Something like this doesn't spring out of nowhere. Of course someone had to have known about it, long before the rest of the world. Of course they'd known it was coming.

Simon is looking at her pleadingly. "Faye, I didn't... If I'd known any of this was going to happen..."

"I know," she says. "I'm sorry. I guess, working for the NSA..." She breaks off, because his lips are twisting again. "What?"

"I technically wasn't working for the NSA at the time. Kinda the opposite, actually." He sighs. "That misspent youth I mentioned. But that's a story for another time."

She frowns, but it's not like she hasn't made mistakes of her own. None of them had really known what they were doing when it all kicked off, and while Simon is bright as hell, he's _so_ young. Overconfident. She can bet he thought he was doing the right thing, that somehow he thought he really could help save the world. Now she looks at his face, the misery in his eyes as he types, and she reaches out, catches hold of his hand, kisses it.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, and he blinks, fighting tears. "I shouldn't have said what I said."

"No. You were right. It went against everything I believed in. I–" The computer bleeps and he glances back at it, taps a few keys. An image pops up in glorious grey-scale – two figures, faceless in biohazard suits. Simon sits forward, eyes intent. "Well, hello, Dr Merch," he murmurs.

"What is that?"

"Part of their security system. It records data every time someone enters or exits the lab. This was taken two days ago, Faye. And that..." He taps the figure on the left. "That is Marilyn Merch."

"Are you sure? It could be anyone under that mask."

He shrugs. "As sure as I can be. They used her key card. Point is someone's there. Colorado is a go."

He works for another couple of hours, searching through the files. Faye has retreated to the safety of her own computer, trying in his stead to contact Operation Bitemark, so far without any success. Mostly she's been watching Simon work, watching the complex tangle of emotions on his face as he runs through file after file after file. With every file he accesses, his expression darkens, until finally he slumps back, frowning. "What is it?" she asks.

"I don't know. Something doesn't seem right."

"Nothing about any of this seems right," she reminds him. "Zombie apocalypse, remember?"

"Yeah. Still... You know what the password is on these files? 'Red death.' Know what that's from?"

"'And the Red Death held sway over all.'"

"Well, the actual line is 'And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.' But yeah, you're close."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "You know your Poe."

"Just don't get me started on Lovecraft; we'll be here all night. But am I right in thinking that is just a little bit creepy?"

She nods. "Creepy as fuck," she agrees. "Given the circumstances." _And given the small fact that just about everyone in the lab appears to be dead._

He breaks for lunch at Faye's insistence, and the two of them eat MREs at the table in the control room. He tells her a little about what he's found in the files, but the conversation is stilted and soon trails off. He hesitates, then speaks, "Faye?"

"Mmm?"

"Are we... okay? You and me. Are we..." He swallows hard, and she realises that he's very close to tears.

She meets his gaze. "Of course we're okay. You say you thought you were doing the right thing at the time, and I believe you."

"You were right though. Maybe if I'd spoken up, I could have... I don't know... made a difference. Stopped so many people from dying."

She shrugs. "Or maybe the resulting panic and looting would have caused an even bigger problem. And let's face it, who would have believed you?"

He tilts his head, acknowledging the point. "Even so..."

"Look, what matters is what you're doing _now_. And this?" She gestures at the screens. "Honestly? It takes my fucking breath away. You're _astonishing_ , Simon. We're three years in and you're still here, working your arse off, every day, for hours." She pauses, grinning. "Are the NSA even still paying you?"

He laughs grimly. "Somehow I doubt it."

"Not that money means much in this day and age."

"Maybe somewhere in the US there's a huge bank vault filled with gold bullion or Oxycontin or cigarettes or whatever the hell passes for currency these days. And it's all mine."

"And you get to live here for free. Eating all their food. You should be paying _them_."

"I'm such a freeloader," he agrees. They clink their mugs together. He pauses, chewing on his lower lip. "I'm glad we're okay," he says. "Only... how okay is okay?"

"I don't follow you."

He leans forward and kisses her. It's a brief questing kiss, hesitant and uncertain, as if he expects her to push him away. _Oh sweetheart,_ Faye thinks. _We're way past that._ In response, she kisses him back, harder, lets him draw her onto his lap, his arms wrapping around her.

"We're okay," she whispers, when the kiss ends, and she knows it's true.


	17. Is That All We Get?

**A/N: Note that this chapter contains spoilers from the series one finale.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen  
Is That All We Get?**

He lies awake, with Faye asleep beside him, her breathing slow and even. For a while, he'd watched her sleep, watched her eyelids fluttering as she dreamed, ready to wake her up if she started to slide towards a nightmare.

The night before he'd told her everything, about the hacking, the arrest on ridiculous espionage charges. And Henry Semple's offer, which might as well have been a baited bear-trap, waiting to snap shut. When he finished, she stayed silent for a long time. Heart thumping, he waited for her reaction; their limbs and blankets were tangled together so tightly he didn't think they'd ever be able to extricate themselves.

"So you took the red pill," she said. "Do you regret it?"

He'd thought about it for a long time before answering. Simon's under no illusions. If he hadn't accepted their offer, taken the post at Camp Northern Light, he would have died fast and bloody, his brains scooped out of his skull like soft-serve ice-cream.

He's not like Warren or Garnett. He's not a fighter.

"Honestly? No. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be here. I'd be dead. And you..."

"I'd still be out there," she murmured. "I'm glad you took it too. Somehow I can't picture you in prison."

"Hey, I might have been acquitted," he said. She raised her eyebrows and he grimaced. "Okay, yeah, I would have been screwed."

"Go straight to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred pounds."

"Pretty much."

What he hates is how much he enjoyed the post. In the early days at least. It sated the part of him that drove him to hacking in the first place; the part of him that hungered for knowledge, understanding, secrets. It had allowed that sick, twisted, angry part of him to gorge on all the shit he was never meant to see, and under the NSA's protection. He'd been untouchable, for a little while. Just so long as he played by their rules.

Only it was all another lie. Just like the Iraq war, the catalogue of lies and questionable intelligence that had led to his brother bleeding out in the desert beside the wreckage of a shattered Humvee.

He sighs.

There's no way he's going to be able to sleep now.

Carefully, so as not to wake Faye, he slides out of the bunk and pulls on his dressing gown. The dog whines and Simon shushes him. "Let her sleep," he says softly.

What was it she called him? 'Astonishing'. He smiles to himself, amused by the Britishness of it. Still... ' _astonishing_?' He'll settle for that.

In the control room, his aching muscles complain as he settles into the chair and cracks his knuckles. They're so close. He doesn't have much time before Operation Bitemark reaches Colorado, and he knows how woefully under-prepared he is. In particular, he needs to know more about the lab's defence mechanisms. Ever since running through the files, seeing those red-eyed screeching monkeys, worry has been gnawing at his gut.

Something's not right here.

First he runs through the system, accessing whatever cameras he can find, searching for any sign of recent access. Nothing. But he's in luck. One of the lab techs has left his cell charging at his terminal, and Simon grins, tapping out a message for Operation Bitemark. The more they know the better, he figures. He glances at the dead lab tech, slumped at his desk. A woman in a white lab coat is slumped over him, and it it wasn't for the ragged tear in the man's throat, they might almost be embracing. "Thanks dude," he murmurs. "And, uh... sorry."

That done, he seeks out the operations manual. It's protected with a different password, but he's just warming up and he cracks it quickly.

"Right," he says, leaning forward. "Let's see what we got."

He reads quickly, impatiently, skimming chunks of text. Until halfway through, when he blinks, stops to reread the last sentence again. "Aw crap." He should have known. "Delta-X-Ray, you are not going to like this."

For once, he's almost glad he's here, trapped in the Arctic, where Roberta Warren can't get her hands on him.

* * *

He doesn't tell Faye what he's found. He can't bring himself to say the words. He puts out a message for Dr Merch, hoping that the woman will catch it, even if she can't get back in touch. Just as long as she knows that they're on their way with her patient zero. And he tries to contact Operation Bitemark, almost not caring that they've gone silent _again._

Almost.

And the rest of the time he spends with Faye. Playing cards and listening to music in the control room. Shovelling snow from the doorway. Watching the Aurora Borealis from the walkway of the outbuilding, keeping a watchful eye out for bears. Curled up on the sofa in the rec-room, making out like teenagers. It's the happiest he can remember feeling for a long time, despite the ever raging storms. The constant darkness.

Because slowly, gradually, inch by painful inch, the sun is creeping back to them.

* * *

He's on his way out the door when the screen bleeps with an incoming message.

"Damn it." Simon turns on his heel and returns to his desk, glancing at the time. He hooks the headset on.

"This is Warren, trying to contact Camp Northern Li–"

"Copy that, Delta-X-Ray." He can't quite keep the snap of impatience out of his voice; he pauses, forces himself to slow down although he's itching with impatience. Faye is waiting for him. "Good to hear your voice" And it _is_ , even though they'd picked the worst possible time to call in. "What's your status?"

"So so. We're low on ammo, and Cassandra is not looking good. We're about a day away from Fort Collins."

 _So close._

The walkie talkie crackles. Faye's urgent voice, tinny and far away. "Simon, where the hell are you?"

"Copy that," he tells Warren. "There'll be medical supplies at the lab. She can get help there. How's the package?"

"Bein' a jerk as always."

Simon hears an "I'm right here, ya know," from Murphy in the background, and he fights back a smile. He gives Warren the coordinates of the lab, biting his cheek impatiently as she searches for some way to write them down. "Okay," he says finally, ignoring the walkie talkie crackling. "Once you're there look for a metal shed with a roll-up door. There's some Zs, but, nothing you can't handle." _He hopes._

"Got it."

And she's gone. "Simon, what the hell?" Faye is saying over the walkie talkie. "You're missing it!"

"Damn it." He rips the headset off, and snatches up the walkie talkie. "On my way."

He grabs his parka and sprints through the compound, winding up around the snail-curve corridor to where Faye stands by the open door. She's shading her eyes as she gazes out at the sun, rising for the first time in a hundred days. The brightest light he's ever seen shines out from behind the mountains, and he wraps his arms around Faye from behind, kisses her cold cheek.

"What kept you?" she says.

"Unexpected call from Operation Bitemark. But there was no way I was gonna miss this. The first daylight in months."

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he agrees. "Except maybe the Northern lights." A _nd you,_ he thinks, but doesn't say.

The indigo sky is streaked with colour; pink clouds gleam with the light from the sun. Beneath the snow is blue-grey, mottled with shadows, but the all-comsuming, hungry darkness is gone.

Soon the sun will start to slip back towards the horizon, but for now they watch the daylight and hope.

Faye snuggles back against him. "So what did the last best hope for humanity want?"

The last thing he wants to think about right now is Murphy, but he forces himself to answer her. "They're close to Fort Collins. Maybe a day away, according to Warren."

"Seriously? Wow."

"I know. Just one more day and it could all be over." He sighs. "A year and a half of my life. Everything I've been working for. Package delivered. Antibodies harvested. Humanity saved."

"You really think it's that simple?"

He shakes his head. "Is it ever? But it's got to be a start, right? And then we can rebuild the world, better than ever. Civilisation 2.0. A new dawn." He manages to keep the cynicism out of his voice. Just.

The sun is already dipping towards the horizon, the sky darkening. _Is that all we get?_ he wonders. Soon it will be twilight again, and then nothing but the all-encompassing dark.

* * *

A day away, Warren had said, but in the apocalypse nothing ever goes to plan. In the end, it's another week until he hears from Operation Bitemark again. A week of obsessively checking the CCTV footage from the Colorado lab, a week of repeated attempts to contact his team and Dr Merch. And every day he sits with Faye and watches the sun rise, and the tattered remnants of his hope rise with it, because each time the light lasts a fraction longer.

The Polar night is over and he's survived. _They_ have survived, and whatever is between them feels stronger than ever. Despite him doing his best to screw it up.

And still, even so, he can't help worrying, because what the hell is taking Delta-XRay so freaking long?

When it happens, it all happens at once. He's rigged up an alarm to sound when the lab is accessed, and he can hardly believe it when it actually goes off. He'd been starting to think that this would never actually happen. But they're there, they've arrived: Warren's group with Murphy, and he sits at his workstation, mouth dry. "Oh, I hope you're seeing this, Dr Merch," he mutters.

"Is it them?" Faye asks, and he nods, his leg jiggling with nerves. Faye sighs and leans forward, places her hand on his knee, stilling him. "Okay, what's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you so edgy. I thought this was what you've been waiting for. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Not exactly, but..." He runs his hand over his face. "Okay, okay. The lab has some pretty hardcore safety fail-safes."

"How hardcore are we talking?"

"Nuclear weapon level hardcore." He meets her gaze, grimacing. "If the quarantine system is breached – and I should stress there's _no_ reason why it should be – then the lab will be incinerated by a tactical nuclear weapon." _Yeah, no big deal or anything._

"You are having a fucking laugh. Tell me you're joking."

"Wish I could."

"Fucking hell, Simon." She shakes her head in disbelief. "How long have you known about this?"

"A couple weeks. Give or take."

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

He glances at her, startled by the hurt in her voice. "I didn't even want to admit it to myself. And right now, I'm psyching myself up to tell _them_. It's not a conversation I've been looking forward to. But it's not as bad as it sounds. As long as they go through the decontamination process before they leave the lab, nothing bad's gonna happen. Probably."

"' _Probably?_ '"

"Almost certainly."

He calls them, and to his relief it's Stephen Beck who answers, not Warren or, God forbid, Murphy. Stephen Beck, who calls himself Doc, the self-appointed medic of the group, who had worked as a counsellor Pre-Z. He takes the news with grim black humour and when he hears that the decontamination process has to be undertaken in the nude, he even seems to perk up a little. Simon exhales in relief when the call is over.

"Well, that could have gone a lot worse," he says.

"You know, part of me can't help wondering if you're not just fucking with them."

"I'm not that stupid." Simon grimaces. "One of these days, I'm actually going to meet Warren and she is going to kick my ass."

Faye doesn't answer straight away and when he glances up at her, he sees she's staring at the screen. "You think they'll be okay?"

"They know what they're doing," he says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. "There's no greater aid to concentration than the threat of total nuclear annihilation."

"Funny thing that," Faye says. "I think I'd find it just the tiniest bit distracting myself."

 _Yeah,_ he thinks. _Me too._

And then there's nothing he can do except watch the group wind their way through the lab through the patchwork network of cameras. By the time they emerge from the decontamination process he knows something is wrong. Cassandra is being carried by the kid with the inexplicable name – although since his group knows Simon only as Citizen Z, he guesses he can't really judge. P _oor woman,_ he thinks, watching as the kid puts her down and she slumps against the wall. She never had a chance.

"God, I hope Dr Merch gets there soon," he says.

Faye doesn't answer, only rests her hand on his shoulder. They watch in silence as the group take Cassandra into a store room. Simon's vision blur with tears as one by one emerge out into the corridor. Murphy is the last to emerge, and Faye covers her mouth with her hand. "Oh God, is she..."

"She's tough," Simon whispers. "She might pull through." _They made it too late,_ he thinks. If they'd got there just a few days earlier... He wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, takes a shaky breath. There's nothing he can do for her now.

* * *

An alarm sounds and he glances at one of his screens, sitting up straighter when he sees the blue-suited figure, faceless behind a glass mask, flanked by two soldiers. "Finally."

"Is that Dr Merch?"

"Well, they used her key-card. I'd better give the group a heads up." He connects with the laptop, brings up a video call. "You've got company. Looks like Dr Merch and two soldiers headed your way. They should be there any second."

And just as he's finished the figure and the soldiers enter. The doctor takes off his mask, and Simon sits forward, frowning. Because this is _not_ Dr Merch. It's a man he doesn't recognise, bald with sharp-features, a smile that doesn't touch his eyes. And he claims his name is Dr Kurtz.

"Wait." Faye leans forward. She shakes her head as Simon types, bringing up the man's records. "No, no, no, Simon, this isn't right."

"You know Dr Kurtz?"

"I've read his book. The man's a fucking genius. He won the Nobel prize, for God's sake. And I know that _that_ " – she jabs her finger at the man in the video – "is not Dr Kurtz. So who the hell is he?"

"Let's find out."

He runs a facial recognition scan, tapping his fingers impatiently on the desk until his screen brings up a match. "Dr Kurian. That name mean anything to you, Faye?"

She shakes her head.

He pulls up a series of expurgated documents on screen, the vital details blacked out. Simon snorts in contempt. He rolls his eyes at Faye. "Redacted, my ass."

He sets to work. They can't hide anything from him; don't they know who he is? This is his hunt; this is what he's good at. He strips the files, grinning as the additional information is restored, but the moment he starts reading his smile vanishes. "Oh shit."

Faye's reading over his shoulder, her eyes wide. "Bio-weapon technology? He's some sort of fucking terrorist? And what the hell does 'battlefield hypnotics' mean?"

Simon glances wildly up at Faye, his confidence crashing down. He hasn't felt this helpless since he thought Faye was going to be killed by the polar bear. "I've lead them into a trap!" He grabs for the microphone. "Delta-X-Ray-Delta, come in!"

"Here!" Faye scrabbles around on the desk, throws him a scrap of paper and a pen.

He scrawls three words on the paper, holds it up to the camera, hoping to God someone will see. "Kill the doctor! You have to kill the doctor!"

And on his screens everything goes to hell.

The door opens and Cassandra comes in. So she's okay, only as she steps forward into the light, he sees that she is a long way from all right. Her hair is a tangle, falling over her face, and there is something unnatural about the way she moves.

 _She's not human_. Only she isn't moving like a Z, and when she lifts her head, her eyes gleam with a wild euphoric light. _Something else,_ he thinks. _Oh fucking hell, Murphy. What did you do?_

And Murphy's running.

"Shit." Simon's on his feet, without even realising he's stood up. He tracks the man through the halls, screaming his name. Only when Murphy reaches the antechamber with its double air-lock, does he seem to hear Simon, and twists towards the camera, with cold, inhuman fury in his eyes. Simon knows there's going to be no reasoning with him. They're all fucked. His team are all fucked and it's _his fault._

 _Should have stuck with California._

"You!" Murphy spits. "You set me up, you bastard. You set us all up."

"No! No, I didn't. I had no idea this was gonna happen, I swear. You have to believe me."

"No, I don't. I don't have to believe anything anyone says every again. Especially you."

Simon squeezes his eyes shut, counts to three. He can't let this happen; he can't. "You have got to listen to me. You're infected with the virus. If you attempt to exit the lab without going through decontamination, you're gonna set off the fail-safe."

Murphy throws up his arms. There is defeat in his voice, bitter and desperate. "And why should I care?"

"Damn it, Murphy! Listen–"

"I lost everything!" the man roars, and Simon falters, staring in desperation at the monitor. Murphy steps back, dropping his arms. He looks tired now. "Including myself."

Simon licks his lips, tries again. "Murphy, a tactical nuclear weapon will be launched from NORAD to incinerate the lab. If you go up, you will kill everyone there, including Warren, Doc and the others." _Come on, Murphy, you're not really a killer. I know you're not._ "Do you read me? Murphy, do you read me?" In the room beyond, he sees the flash of a blue-coated figure. Dr Kurian. Christ knows what's happened to the others; he can't bring himself to look. "Murphy, I did not set you up. Do you copy?"

An alarm is sounding. It drills into Simon's skull and he fights for breath because he knows what it means. Murphy's hand is on the door. He glances at the camera, when Simon yells his name, and then he wrenches the door open.

The alarm blares louder, a banshee-howl, and Simon stares in horror, stumbling back.

 _"Fail-safe activated. Fail-safe activated. Seven minutes to detonation."_

 _Fuck._ "Oh, Warren," he mutters. "I'm so sorry."

Faye's face is white with dismay. "Is there anything you can do?"

Slowly, Simon shakes his head. He's good, but he's not _that_ good. "I got them all killed," he whispers.

"It wasn't you. It was Murphy. That fucking arsehole."

He brings up the map on the screen, watches the trajectory of the nuke. Only something is happening – more nukes, being launched from other countries.

"Holy crap," he breathes.

"What's happening?"

He doesn't answer her. He's trying to count the nukes, their destinations. All over the world, London, Delhi, Los Angeles. So many nukes, so many cities, so many lives. It makes him dizzy.

An alarm – one of many – buzzes, and he glances at another screen, at yet another missile tracking north. "Where are you headed?" he murmurs, before his eyes fix on the tag.

 _NSA-outpost-31_. Camp Northern Light.

The timer is ticking: 2 minutes, 29 seconds, counting ever down.

"Oh," he says, his voice small. Of course. Really, he should have known. Then he grabs Faye's arm. "We have to go. _Now_."

"What? But–"

"No time. Faye. we have to run."

He knows it's pointless, that they are both screwed, about to die in the shittiest, most unnecessary way possible, but he doesn't want to die in here. He doesn't want this to be his tomb.

They run, sprinting up the corridor, and out into the freezing cold. Helpless, Simon stares at the nuke streaking towards them. Beside him, Faye shivers, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes wide with fear. "Is that–?"

"Don't look," he tells her, and pulls her close. She presses her face against his chest. He kisses the top of her head, feels her shaking against him, and his eyes fill with tears. _It's not fucking fair._ "God, I hate the apocalypse."

* * *

 **A/N: So the shit has finally hit the fan. If you're enjoyed this, I would hugely appreciate it if you left me a review. Thanks for reading.**


	18. Not in Kansas Any More

**Chapter Eighteen**

 **Not in Kansas Any More**

Is it luck? Afterwards, in the darker moments, he wonders. He thinks so, but he can never quite tell whether the luck is good or bad. What he does know is that he really should have expected more of the NSA. The defence systems kick in, and as he stares up at the sky through his tears, he sees a missile soaring up to intercept the nuke.

It all happens so fast.

He barely has time to take a breath, certainly no time to scream, before the world explodes in a rush of scorching heat and fury.

It flings him backwards, tears Faye from his arms. Does he black out? He isn't sure. Coughing, he rolls over onto his hands and knees, his mouth filled with dust.

When he looks up, at first he thinks he's somewhere else. That, like Dorothy, he's been swept away to another world. He hopes it's somewhere with no zombies. No thermonuclear weapons. Ideally no flying monkeys either.

Then he laughs, and the sound edges close to hysteria. He's alive. And he's never been to Kansas in his goddamn life.

The facility has been reduced to a shell. The explosion has ripped away the walls, left the infrastructure ragged and shattered. An icy wind whips through the wreckage as he stumbles towards the place where the wall used to be.

The explosion has vaporised the snow all around the compound, baring the black rock beneath, and flung the crumpled wreckage of the US army plane closer to the compound.

A cargo plane that just happens to contain the bodies of his erstwhile colleagues, long frozen solid.

Is it his imagination or is there something moving behind the window?

He stumbles away, backing rapidly out of sight. _We are so screwed_.

 _Wait. 'We.'_

In his daze, he has forgotten about Faye. He turns in a circle until he spots her, crumpled on the ground, her skin so pale. _She's not dead,_ he thinks, dropping to his knees beside her. _She can't be dead._

"Faye? Sweetie?" Not dead, thank God, but there's an ugly gash at the back of her head and her hair is slick with blood. He tries to lift her, but she's a dead weight in his arms, too heavy for him to carry. So instead he drags her to the control room, his shoulders screaming in protest. The blast has ripped a hole in the ceiling, and his screens are cracked and shattered, showing nothing but static. The dog is still curled on his makeshift bed, and Simon feels a momentary swell of relief when the dog lifts his head with a whine of greeting.

The relief doesn't last.

He has to move fast. He drapes Faye with her parka and pulls his own on, shivering uncontrollably from the cold. It helps a little, but it's a while before his teeth stop chattering. He glances at Faye, who looks frozen and half-dead, convinced that in the distance he can hear the snarls and shrieks of the dead.

 _They're coming. Oh fuck, they're coming._

He grabs his gun and sprints towards the back of the facility, to the back rooms where the meagre supply of weapons are kept. He grabs a sniper rifle, a handful of ammo , terror searing through him as he notes how little there is left. He has no idea how many zombies there are. Almost thirty soldiers were on that plane, but chances are not all of them survived in the wreckage. Maybe not many. Maybe not many at all. Christ, he hopes so.

He stuffs his handgun into the pocket of his parka, sprints back, the rifle a ton weight in his arms. He can hear them, screeching and howling with hunger, and as he runs towards one of the outer sheds, he makes the mistake of glancing towards the wreckage of the plane, and he _sees_ them, surging across the snow.

Terror grips him like a fist, and he stumbles, legs momentarily shaky. He flings himself up the ladder that leads to the walkway , his boots ringing on the metal rungs. He thinks about Faye, alone and unprotected, but he can't help her now. He drops into what he hopes passes for a sniper's stance and takes aim.

There's so many of them, more than he'd feared, and they're fast, preserved by the ice. He squints through the scope, takes aim, tries desperately to step out of his body, to slip sideways into a world where this is just a video game. Somewhere with no consequences. Where he won't get them both killed if he fails. He squeezes the trigger.

Head shot. The Z drops. Holy _shit_ , maybe he can actually do this.

He swings around, finds another Z. This time he jerks the trigger and misses completely. Too fast. Slower. Squeeze it. He takes another shot, forcing himself to slow down. He catches its shoulder, but it keeps coming, They _all_ keep on coming,vanishing inside the facility.

 _Faye._

He groans, scrambling to his feet and runs back to the ladder. A straggler turns towards him, snarling, as he climbs down the ladder. He turns, almost tripping over his feet in his haste. He jerks the rifle up and fires, missing completely. He howls in frustration, pulls the trigger again, and this time the Z's knee shatters in a burst of blood and bone.

 _Huh. That'll do._

As it drags itself along the ground towards him, he turns towards the facility.

The other zombies have disappeared inside, but he can hear their shrieks, the thump of their boots. They're inside, and so is Faye, helpless and alone. He counts to three, and heads inside, twisting in circles at every echoing sound, every lurching shadow.

There's a screech, the thump of footsteps, and a Z passes by a doorway. It stops dead, and swings its head towards him. As he jerks the rifle up, it roars, sprinting towards him. He fires, hits the zombie in the shoulder, but it keeps coming. Simon backs away, fires again, hits the other shoulder. _Shit._

In desperation, he squeezes off another shot, knowing he's fucked, that he's going to die, and this time he hits the Z in the head. It crumples, staining the floor with a pool of dark, viscous blood. He exhales, panting, stares in disbelief. Because he _knows_ this kid. He's gotten drunk with him; they chatted about their girlfriends and played _Dead_ fucking _Rising_ together, and now his corpse is stretched out on a concrete floor with a bullet in his skull. A bullet that Simon put there.

 _I can't do this._ He backs away, shouldering the rifle. _I can't–_

Another Z sprints at him from outside. Every scrap of courage deserts him. He gasps, backing away, reaches into his pocket for the gun. It sticks, caught fast in the lining. He screams in terror and frustration, and spins around, running for the control room, fighting to get the gun out of his pocket. If he can just–

His boot catches on a crates and he trips, landing hard on the concrete. He rolls over scrabbling for his gun, and in moments the zombie is on him, snarling, its teeth bared.

There's a sickly, brutal thwack. The zombie crumples on top of him, but it's not dead yet. Faye raises the golf club again, her eyes wild and filled with rage. Her skin is blanched, ice-white.

She bares her teeth as she brings the club down. The skull caves in with a crunch. She cries out in fury, and from the depths of the facility Simon hears more inhuman shrieks.

He scrambles up, grabs the club from her, easing it from her hands. She slumps against him, all her strength gone. She shivers uncontrollably, her lips tinged with blue. Her teeth rattle like dice in a game of Yahtzee. He flings her parka at her, then drags the zombie away, leaving it in a crumpled heap. He grabs at whatever boxes and crates he can find, stacking them to build a barricade that looks far too flimsy to hold for long.

And when he finally looks back he sees that Faye is still shaking from the cold, the parka clutched uselessly in her hand. He feels a surge of frustration, which he quickly battens down, furious at himself. She's _injured_ , for God's sake.

"Let me help," he murmurs, and he pulls the parka on, pushing her arms into the sleeves. He zips it up, then squeezes her tight until the worst of her shivering starts to subside.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Sick. Headachy." She leans against him. "Everything's blurry."

"I think you might have a concussion. It should subside in a while. If it gets worse..." If it gets worse, there's probably nothing he can do. He closes his eyes; he can't think like that.

"What's happening?" she asks.

He can't find the words to answer her. She pulls away from him a little, and he fights the urge to keep her as close as he can. "They nuked us, didn't they?" her voice starts to rise in pitch, and he presses his hand over her mouth, glancing towards the barricade. She stares at him, her eyes wide and glassy.

"We didn't get nuked," he says. "The defence systems kicked in. We got lucky." _Lucky_. He almost laughs at how ludicrous it sounds, and then he hears the thud of footsteps, moving rapidly closer, and it's no longer even slightly funny.

Simon creeps towards the barricade, peering through one of the many gaps. A shadow passes by and he draws back, closing his eyes.

 _Murphy,_ he thinks, when the zombie has moved on. _You son-of-a-bitch._

But he's not kidding himself. Murphy might be an asshole, but there's no one Simon can blame here except himself. Getting sucked into the search for Dr Merch, following the breadcrumbs, blinded to the fact that he was leading his team into a trap.

Because it was a trap; he's pretty sure of that.

And now Murphy's in the wind, the mission in tatters, and there's no way the man will ever trust him again. Not that Simon can blame him either.

But maybe there _is_ something he _can_ do. Murphy may not be willing to cooperate, but there might be another way.

Simon sinks down at his desk, glancing mournfully at his cracked screens. So much for his windows on the world, but at least the radio is still working, and he pulls the microphone towards him, uses the emergency broadcast frequency to put a bounty on Murphy's head. And okay, technically there is no bounty, but he can deal with that when the time comes. Maybe they'll settle for the cure. If there ever is a cure.

In any case, it's not like they can get at him out here.

He's damned if he'd going to lose this fight. He'll get Murphy to California if it kills him. And he lifts his head and stares at the barricade, thinking that it probably will.

"'Find Murphy'," Faye repeats. Across the room she has been listening in. "Think that'll work?" she asks. He doesn't like how weak her voice is, or the defeated expression on her face. _Just the concussion,_ he thinks, and he hopes to God he's right.

He rubs his face. "It has to."

* * *

"Whatever happens, whatever you hear, you stay in this room."

She shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears. "No."

He grips her face, presses his forehead against here. "I have to do this, Faye. We need guns."

"Then I'll come with you–"

"No." He's close to tears too, but he fights them, swallowing down the painful lump in his throat. "You've probably still got a concussion. Is your vision still blurred?"

Her silence tells him the answer. Besides, he doesn't think he'd have the guts to do this if she's with him. At least here, she's got protection of a kind in the form of the barricade. "I need you to stay. Someone needs to look after my dog."

"Simon..."

"Promise me."

She nods. Not quite a promise, but it'll do. He cups her cheeks and kisses her. "I could leave you the gun..."

"Don't be an idiot."

"I can't leave you without a weapon."

"I've got the golf club."

It's not nearly enough, but their chances are better if he has the gun, so he nods, hating himself. "All right. All right. Let's do this."

He pushes the baseball bat and his gun to the other side of the barricade. Faye helps him pull down one of the crates, and although they're as careful as they can be, the scraping noise it makes and the thump as they place it on the ground seem deafening. He waits, listening out for any sign that they have been heard.

 _Nothing._ He exhales. Okay, he can do this. Just like a video game.

He turns to Faye. "When I'm through put the crate back."

"No."

"Faye–"

Her expression is resolute and filled with fury. "Don't you dare. You can make me promise to stay here, but there is no way I'm going to do anything that will actively jeopardise your chances of coming back in one piece."

"But–"

" _Don't ask me to, Simon._ " She's close to hysteria, close to breaking down completely. He backs off.

"Okay. I won't." He kisses her again. A deep passionate kiss that he wishes could never end. "I love you," he whispers in her ear.

In response, she squeezes his hand. "Just get back here, okay?"

In the hanger the temperature is bitterly cold. His gaze sweeps around, searching for any sign of movement. How long can they survive out here, he wonders. Without heat. He weighs the baseball bat in one hand, the gun in the other, feeling totally unprepared, and totally vulnerable.

 _You can do this_ , he tells himself. _Just like a video game, remember?_

Except that now that he's out here, it's nothing like a video game. It's him getting himself killed.

But fuck it, what choice does he have? How long can he and Faye stay hidden in the control room before one of the Zs finds them? How long will his crappy barricade hold against these zombies, who thanks to the Arctic deep freeze are as fast and powerful and deadly as if they were freshly turned?

Simon's an optimist, but even he knows they're about as fucked as they can possibly be. Unless – and it's a small blossoming hope – unless he can get to the munitions supplies. With weapons, more ammo, then they can make a stand. The odds will still be stacked against them, but–

His boot crunches on broken glass. He freezes, breath misting in the air as he exhales. He hears the shriek of a Z, pounding feet, and in the periphery of his vision something flickers.

 _Time to run._

Three of them streak out from the shadows behind him, moving fast. Simon's first instinct is to stand bolt-still, but he screams, and flight kicks in. He runs, his breath coming hard, his legs wrenching with agony as he sprints for the door at the back of the compound.

Another Z lurches out from his right, and he spins to dodge it, skidding for a few heart-wrenching seconds on broken glass, and then he's up and running again, heading away from the door because there's no way he can reach it in time.

Instead, he runs outside. It's snowing again, and flakes whirl into his face, half-blinding him. He swings to the left towards one of the out-buildings. He sprints up the metal staircase, taking the steps two at a time. At the top, he ducks out of sight, grips his gun.

This is insane. What the hell is he doing?

"I can't do this," he whispers, and then dread rips through his body, because he's heard the first clang of a boot on the metal staircase.

Moving as quietly as he can, he makes his way along the walkway to the other side of the building. Cautiously, he straightens up, peers around the corner. The Zs are all coming up the stairs. Four of them now, moving fast.

He glances over the railing, then before he can chicken out, he hooks a leg over the side, counts to three and drops. He lands awkwardly on the thin layer of freshly fallen snow, and agony wrenches his right leg with the impact.

He bites back a cry of pain, shoots a look back up at the walkway, terrified that the Zs have figured out where he's gone, and then he's running again. Sprinting back into the hanger as fast as he can. Outside the zombies shriek, but he hits the door, and flings himself through, slamming it closed behind him.

 _Too much fucking noise._

He leans against it, panting, fighting desperately to get his breath back because he needs to keep moving.

Only he can't. He's not a hero; he's just a kid who's good with computers. An idiot who thinks he's smarter than he actually is. He can't do this.

He takes a shuddering breath, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. _You have to_. He thinks of Faye, frightened and alone, waiting for him to come back. If he dies, if he gives up because he's a damn coward, what happens to her? And what happens to his dog?

He coughs, catching his breath, before pushing himself away from the door. He raises his gun, edges down the corridor, checking the open doors for any sign of movement.

And then he's there, the munitions room. He sigh in relief, tugs two bags of weaponry from a locker. He lifts his head, listening for any sounds outside over the sound of the howling wind. Carrying the guns, he edges out into the corridor, glancing both ways. Nothing there.

 _Okay,_ he thinks. _I can do this._

But as he steps through the doorway, he hears snarling. He drops the heavy bags and raises his gun, breathing hard. It takes three shots to drop the zombie, and he sags as it crumples, because he's not sure how much more of this he can take. And then he hears another noise behind him, and he turns to see another scrambling through an open window, growling with inhuman hunger.

It runs at him, slams him into the wall so hard it crushes the air from his lungs. He struggles against it, fighting to bring up his gun, and to keep its snapping teeth from his throat. His head thwacks back against the wall, and a wave of dizziness rushes over him. He's going to die. He thinks about his mom, about her comforting arms wrapped around him, and he screams in rage, brings the gun up, presses the barrel against the zombie's chin, biting into its waxy flesh.

He pulls the trigger. Blood splatters against the opposite wall. The Z drops.

Gasping, he steps over the corpse, and grabs the guns, staggers down the corridor towards the hanger.

There in the shadows, he falls to his knees on the concrete to rummage through the bags. Freezes at the thump of running feet.

 _Oh come on._

He grabs for the first thing he sees, the baseball bat, and turns to see the Z sprinting towards him. It's big and _fast_ , and his breath frosts on the air. He shifts his grip on the bat, and just as the Z is almost on him, he twists to the side, slams the bat into the Z's back. It spins towards him, snarling. He backs away, edging in a circle, strikes it in the chest.

"C'mon!" His heart races.

He's sick of fear, sick of running; his terror has turned into rage, a deep hatred for these fucking monsters wearing the bodies of the people he's worked with, his friends. He jabs the point of the bat into the Z's chest, then brings it down hard on its back, sends it sprawling on the floor.

He slams the bat down again and again, his blood roaring in his ears, his face contorted with fury. Until the Z stops moving, until the sound the bat makes are wet and slippery.

And then he backs away from the ruined mess on the floor. He draws a shaking hand across the back of his mouth. _Yeah,_ he thinks. _That's what I'm fucking talking about._

He picks up the guns, and stalks away, his heart pounding.

In the control room, Faye is waiting for him. Her face pales at the sight of him, but she helps him through with the guns, saying nothing. In silence, they push the crate back into place, and he kneels down to take stock.

Lots of guns. A whole bag full of guns. Sub machine guns, sniper rifles, enough to equip an army.

Only problem is they're all but useless, because he has no ammunition for any of them. Oh, except for the anti-tank missile launcher that he doesn't have the first goddamn clue how to use.

When Faye puts her arms around him, his face crumples and he starts to weep. Wrenching sobs wrack his body, as he weeps for Faye, for himself, for his family and Delta-XRay. For everyone and everything that has been lost. He's cried in front of her before, but never like this. Never this total loss of control. It's all he can to to keep his sobs muffled in her parka.

And Faye presses her hand against the back of his head, her own tears warm and wet against his neck. She says nothing; she just lets him cry. Lets him scream silently into her shoulder in terror and fury and pain. Because he's risked his life for nothing, and they're going to die.

Camp Northern Light is going to be their tomb and there isn't a damn thing he can do to save them.


	19. Redrum

**A/N: Note that there are some not terribly pleasant references to bodily waste and period blood in this chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen**

 **Redrum**

In the half-lit twilight of the control room, Faye watches Simon as he teaches her how to use his handgun. He shows her how to load the magazine with rounds, how to insert and eject it, and how to rack the slide to insert the first round into the chamber. And then he sits back, watches her with weary eyes as she repeats the process.

"Got it?" he asks.

"I think so." She tries for a smile, manages a kind of rictus grin. "Just wish I could get out there and practice."

He sits on the crate, staring at the barricade. "No way I'm letting you go out there on your own."

"We're going to need some more water soon," she reminds him. "Food as well."

"Then I'll go."

"It's my turn."

His mouth tightens. "We're not taking turns, Faye." She fights the urge to flinch at his tone, and lowers her head to stare at the gun in her hands, feeling his gaze on her. "Are you worried I'll screw this up too?" he asks softly.

 _Damn it._ Her head snaps up. "You can't think like that. You didn't screw up." When he doesn't answer, she leans against him. It takes him a moment, but he puts his arm around her as she knew he would. She rests her head against his shoulder, glances up at his miserable expression, wishing he would stop blaming himself.

They've been trapped in the control room for just over a week now, filthy and terrified, in a room that stinks of the bucket in the corner, of shit and urine and misery. She's had to deal with the onset of her period, using wadded up bandages from the first aid kit. Thank God for the gaping hole in the ceiling, because at least it means they have some ventilation. Unfortunately, it also means they're constantly freezing.

"Bet you're wishing you stayed on the boat," Simon says. He's trying to keep his voice light, but he still can't keep the bitterness from creeping in. _Stop it,_ she thinks. _Stop blaming yourself._

"If I'd stayed on the boat I'd be dead." She states it as fact, as calmly and rationally as she can. "I could have held out a little bit longer, but never this long. The only reason I'm alive is because I'm here."

He's silent for a long time. Faye studies the half-circles of dried blood trapped beneath her nails, remembers how excited she'd been to find out that Camp Northern Light had working showers. It feels like a lifetime away.

Finally Simon draws in a breath. "I feel like I got you here under false pretences. Food, warmth, running water."

"No dead things."

"No dead things," he agrees. They both glance at the barricade as a shriek echoes through the facility. "These guys are starting to outstay their welcome."

She grins at him. "Was that a joke, Cruller?" _Finally._

"Not sure. Maybe."

"Not entirely false pretences," she says. "We do still have a cabinet full of vodka."

"That's true."

"Think we've got enough to drink ourselves to death?" And although she's trying to make it sound like a joke, she's shocked at how hollow her voice sounds. _Not a joke at all_ , she thinks, and what makes it worse is the way Simon looks at her, the hopeless, helpless look in his eyes that says nothing but, ' _why not?'_ "I didn't just say that," she says.

He smiles sadly. "Clearly I'm hallucinating again."

Another Z screams in the distance. Maybe the same one. Faye sighs. "We're still going to need water."

"I know." He sighs, rubs his face. "But not you. Next time maybe, but not now."

"I've got to do it some time. I can't keep letting you risk your life out there–"

"You smell of blood, Faye."

She goes still, feels her cheeks burning red in shame. "Oh."

"I'm worried it'll draw them to you."

"So they're a bit like sharks now?"

"Not gonna risk it. We don't know nearly enough about them. We–" There's a crackle from the makeshift desk.

"–Ome in, Northern Light."

He sits up, eyes wide. "Holy shit, was that the radio?" And then he's pulling away from her and she shivers, wrapping her arms around herself as he moves towards the crate.

"–Is Captain Yates of the USS Michigan, trying to contact Camp–"

Simon darts her a look of amazement and hooks the headset over his head. "USS Michigan, I copy you. You've reached Northern Light, sir." He's taut with excitement, caught between laughter and tears.

"Who am I speaking to?"

"Uh, Private Simon Cruller, sir. Of the NSA. I'm all that's left."

"We're aware of your situation, private. You're doing a damn fine job up there."

"Thank you, sir. Still fighting to save the world." His voice breaks. "I thought you guys were all gone too."

"Not gone, private. Not yet. Uh, we have some new intel on the the relocation of the Mount Wilson lab, but first we need to know the status of Project Bitemark."

"I'm afraid I've lost contact with them, sir. Last I heard they were in Colorado. I haven't given up trying, despite some, uh, operation difficulties."

"Nuke almost get you too?"

"Oh yeah. But we were lucky. Still, the explosion fried a lot of my equipment. We're on the ropes but we're not out yet."

Faye peers through the barricade, only half-listening. It's quiet out there. Eerily so.

"Well, hole up tight, son," the captain's saying. "Our satellite feed's showing a nasty storm headed your way–"

"Wait, what?" Faye turns around. "What storm?"

"Did not copy that, Northern Light. Is there someone else there? You're not alone up there?"

"Uh, no, sir. There's another survivor here. A British civilian, name of Faye Keneally." He glances at her, smiling. "Not sure I could have made it this far without her."

"That's–"

"Yes," Faye says, impatiently. "Lovely to make your acquaintance and everything, but what's all this about a storm?"

There's a moment of silence. "I understand our weather satellite is showing a bad storm headed towards Ellesmere Island. Sorry to tell you folks this, but you're in for four or five days of nasty weather. Likely to hit you within the hour."

"Shit." Faye bends over, hands on her knees. "Shit, shit, shit, fucking, cunting _shit_." She glances down at Simon's pained expression. "Sorry. But _shit_."

"Yeah," Simon says. "Shit."

"Come again, Northern Light?"

Simon ignores him, because Faye's picked up the gun. He pulls the headset off. "Faye, no."

"We don't have any choice, Simon. A storm'll drive the Zs inside, get them riled up. Right now, we have a chance. It's quiet."

The radio crackles again. "Northern Light, we did not copy–"

Simon grimaces, speaks into the headset. "Sorry, USS Michigan. We're having some zombie issues, sir." To Faye, he says, "I'll go. I thought we agreed–"

"We didn't agree anything, Simon. I'm going. Look, we can discuss sexism in survival situations when I get back."

He tilts his head. "Wait, did you just quote Jurassic Park at me?"

"Did it work?"

"Clever girl."

And she can't help it; she laughs. Pressing her hand over her mouth, fighting hysteria and tears. Simon hugs her, grinning, momentarily back to his own self again. Before the siege started.

"Uh, Northern Light, we're gonna need to dive soon."

Simon glances at the radio, clearly torn, and Faye gives him a gentle push. "Go," she says. "Get the coordinates. Do what you do. Let me do this."

He nods, his expression set and miserable. She kisses him. tasting starvation on his breath, the acetone smell of ketosis. Her breath is the same. She'll grab some food if she can, but right now water is the priority.

"It's barely any distance at all," she reminds him. "I'll be back in five minutes. If that."

She half-expects him to tell her he loves her again, those words that make her feel dizzy and breathless, but instead he just nods, turns back to the radio. His shoulders are rigid. She can't see his face, the tears she knows are in his eyes.

"Sir, the coordinates," he's saying, searching for a pen in the clutter.

And Faye turns to the barricade, unaccustomed to the weight of the gun. She wishes she could take the golf club as well, but she still needs to be able to carry the water back.

She climbs over the barricade without looking back, drops to the ground lightly, her boots scuffing softly on the concrete. Stealth and speed, she thinks. She covers her mouth and nose as she passes their makeshift cesspit, and edges out into the hanger. The wind is already starting to pick up, and for a moment she falters, thinking about the two of them trapped in the control room in near total darkness, while the storm rages around them like an express train. That's not something she's looking forward to. With the hole in the roof, they'll have virtually no shelter; maybe it's not the Zs they need to be scared of.

 _But we're together and we're alive,_ she thinks. _That's enough, isn't it?_

She swallows, forcing herself on. Wishing she hadn't insisted on doing this. Wishing it was warmer so she could take her boots off. She'd make less noise barefoot. The wind howls through the pillars as she skirts the edge of the wall, keeping to the shadows, her gaze flitting around for any movement. There's nothing, and as she reaches the door that leads towards the doors, she inhales, glancing over her shoulder. She pauses with her hand on the handle, listening out for any sound of movement in the corridor on the other side.

Silence.

She counts to three and slips inside. Nothing in the corridor. She runs her tongue around a parched mouth, and pads towards the storerooms, moving quickly through the kitchen, past open doorways, expecting a Z to leap out at her at any moment.

In the stores, she heaves two plastic bottles filled with water from the rack, leaves them on the ground. She stuffs the pockets of her parka with as much food as she can, then grabs the water bottles, listens at the door, her heart pounding. She can hear one of them out in the hall. The heavy tread of feet, rasping breath. She draws back, holds her breath as the Z shuffles past the door. She sees the light glint in its dead eyes and then it's gone. She waits, then cautiously edges towards the door, peeks out into the corridor. It's moved around the corner, out of sight, but she can still hear it.

 _Go,_ she thinks. She glances down at the two bottles, considers leaving one of them. But their chances are better with two. The fewer times they have to leave the control room the better.

She starts to move, hears the Z snarl, and she freezes in terror, closing her eyes, wishing she'd never talked Simon into letting her do this.

But she'd had to. She still remembers how he had been when he'd come from from the trip to get the guns. The despair in his eyes. The blood spattered all over his face, which she'd gently wiped off after he was finally done crying. She couldn't let him keep doing that. She has to do this. She has to know how. It's all part of learning how to survive.

She moves out into the corridor. The packaging in her pockets crackles with every step she takes, and she swallows, forcing herself to move as quickly as she can. Behind her, the Z makes a questioning snarl, and then she's through the door and on the other side, pressing her back against it, breathing hard.

She edges along the wall, her shoulders aching from the weight of the water bottles. Broken glass crunches beneath her feet as she reaches the shattered window that opens onto the corridor, and she freezes again, hearing the thud of boots on the other side. She can see the Z's shadow at the window, can hear its rasping breath.

The wad of bandages is uncomfortable between her legs, scratching at her skin. And Simon was right, she realises; she _does_ smell of blood. She plasters herself against the wall, feels the water bottles bump very gently against it. Her heart thumps in her chest, and she has to bite back a soft cry of fear, because the Z is very carefully sniffing the air.

Her breath frosts as the zombie's hands rest carefully on the window frame, heedless of the remaining shards of broken glass slicing into its skin. There's a strange delicacy to its movements as it leans its head through, and takes a deep sniff.

Then it turns its head and looks right at her.

It snarls, lurches forward, throwing itself through the window. Faye drops the water bottles and runs, scrambling and skidding over the broken glass. She throws herself behind a pillar, slams herself up against it, squeezing her eyes shut.

 _Fucking hell, Simon. Why didn't I listen to you?_

The zombie is through the window now, sniffing the air like a dog. Like a bloodhound. She can hear it closing on the pillar, drawing closer. She reaches for the gun, then hesitates.

Because it's the rag that smells.

She hesitates, then jerks up her parka and pulls the wad of blood-soaked bandages out from between her legs. She hears the zombie snarl in sickening excitement, and then she lobs the bandages off to her left as hard as she can. The zombie lopes after it, head low, and Faye whirls the other way.

She snatches up the bottles of water, runs as hard and fast as she can until she reaches the control room. She dumps the bottles outside the barricade and scrambles through, Simon is helping her, covering her face with kisses.

"Are you all right? I should never have let you–"

He's holding her too tightly. She pushes him away gently, sinks down onto her knees until her panicked breathing returns to normal. Then she lifts her head, wipes her hands on her combats. They're starting to feel loose again. "Coordinates?" she asks. It's about all that she can manage.

He nods, staring as she pulls the food she's managed to gather from her pockets, laying it out. The dog sits up, looking interested, but altogether it's a pretty meagre haul. "Any Zs?"

"Just one. Turns out you were right. They are a bit like sharks."

"How did you–"

"You don't want to know, believe me." The exertion has started her bleeding off again. She's feeling sticky. "Any of those bandages left?"

He brings her some, looks away while she wads them up and slips them into place. When she's done, he sits beside her on the crate and she leans against him, closing her eyes. "I _really_ miss my moon cup," she says, with feeling.

 _And the knife._ Both tucked safely away in the bedroom she hasn't used for ages. The other end of the compound. The other end of the world.

"The little things, right?"

"Hmm." She glances up at him, an eyebrow raised. "I like you a lot, Simon, but if you ever imply that adequate sanitary protection is a little thing again it's not going to be the zombies that kill you."

He laughs softly, apologises.

Faye hesitates. "The guys on the radio... Who were they? The USS..."

"The USS Michigan. A submarine, I think. Maybe that's why..." and he trails off, his lips tightening, then forces himself on, "...why we haven't heard from them. I know... I mean, I know I wasn't a priority or anything, but..." He stops, makes a soft disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

"Can we trust them?"

He stares at her for a long moment, his face still, then he looks away.

 _I guess that answers that,_ she thinks.

She leans into him, and he slips his arm around her back, kisses her cheek. "I really hope the captain was wrong about the storm," he says.

Faye lifts her head, looks at the changing light filtering through the hole in the roof. She already knows he wasn't.


	20. Not Dead Yet and Other Arctic Miracles

**Chapter Twenty  
We're Not Dead Yet and Other Arctic Miracles**

Simon works while he can. Using a portable solar panel, he captures the light that filters through the ragged hole in the roof. It's just enough to power a tablet and give him a weak staticky link to the rest of the world, enough that he can try to contact Operation Bitemark, in between monitoring any and all radio signals he can find.

While he works, Faye reads. Or at least he thinks she does. He's been watching her out of the corner of his eye, and it seems like she hasn't turned a page in quite a while. He hopes it's because she's listening in.

Something's going on. The radio waves are busier than normal; there's a lot of back and forth in Spanish, hopefully bounty hunters out to get Murphy to the CDC. He hopes it's not screwing Warren up too much. He picks out bits and pieces in the little Spanish he remembers from high school, and he's even heard his name mentioned a few times. Nice to know somebody's thinking about him.

And then, just as he's about to lose the last of the light, he hears from Addison Carver. He hadn't realised how much he was missing them all until he hears her voice. His crush is long gone, nothing but an excruciating memory now, but he still likes her a lot. She's smart and tough, and he really hopes he gets the chance to meet her one day. Her and all the rest of Warren's gang.

Well... maybe not Murphy.

Who is alive. Off mission and acting weird, so hey, no change there. Same ol', same ol'. But it's good news on the whole.

He's going to lose the light. He's going to lose Addison. He reads out the coordinates the USS Michigan left with him, but the connection is already breaking up, and then she's gone, leaving him with no way of knowing whether she's managed to get them.

He can hear Faye breathing, uneven and strained. He sets the tablet down, and picks his way carefully across the room. She takes his hand as he sits beside her, and he presses his face into her hair, thanking God she's here with him.

He's not sure he could do this without her.

How much longer? How much longer will they be trapped here?

* * *

And another week later he's losing the will to work because he's too busy watching Faye, curled up on the dog-bed, her fingers buried in the husky's fur. Every day she slips further away from him.

In the early days of the siege they used to talk when the lights go out, huddled together in the pitch black, their voices low, flinching at every crash and distant shriek from outside. But that hasn't happened in a while.

Now when the light is gone they lie together, too weak from hunger and too numb from the cold to speak.

In the silence, he starts thinking about the nukes. More than he could count at a glance, and not all of them will have been shot down. In the daylight it's easier to lie to himself, to tell himself that the cities belong to the dead now, and that few, if any, humans will have been killed as a result of his actions. Just the countless dead.

Except he knows that's a lie. There's still radioactive fall out, and the trickle-down effects of radiation, gradually poisoning people who might not have been killed outright. He remembers something he said to the dog once, a stupid fucking daydream about blasting the zunami off the face of the earth with a nuke, and a dry little aside he'd made about 'collateral damage'. It makes him feel sick.

Tears prickle at his eyes and he presses himself closer to Faye, hungry for warmth. He reaches around her, buries his aching fingers in the husky's fur. _We're still alive_ , he tells himself. That's all that matters. He can worry about all the people he's murdered when this nightmare is over.

She rolls towards him, and he kisses her cheek, the fur of her parka tickling his nose. Her skin feels like marble. From somewhere in the compound there's a crash. They both flinch, press closer together.

"Lars was right," she murmurs. "This place is a tomb."

 _Fuck this._ "Hey, we're not dead yet."

"Emphasis on 'yet.'"

"Don't," he pleads.

"Sorry."

 _It's okay,_ Simon thinks. _We're talking again. We're talking again and the team are alive. It's a freaking Arctic miracle._ In the day, the sun will rise, and he'll get a whole other chance to catch the light, rescue the team and save the world. And then, because he needs to keep her talking, he says, "Tell me what he was like."

"Who?"

"Lars." He's already wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. If she wanted him to know, she would have told him already, and by probing he's risking her retreating again, slipping back into a depressive stupor. In any case, he doesn't think he wants to know. He's pretty sure they were lovers, and if he's right, and Lars is the man in the video, he's handsome in a rugged kind of way, the sort of man Simon always wished he could be more like. The sort of man who would have taken to hacking at skulls and dropping Zs with first time head-shots like it was second nature .

But he's dead. Lars left Faye alone, and Simon is damned if he's going to to the same. He'll protect her. No matter what.

"I can't." Her voice is so quiet he can barely hear her.

 _Were you in love with him?_ The question is on his lips, but he can't ask it. He's pretty sure he knows the answer. Since he told her he loved her all those weeks ago, she hasn't returned the sentiment. It hurts a little, but he gets it. They're just two people thrown together by circumstance. So what if she doesn't love him? She likes him, even cares about him. If that's all he gets, he's still the luckiest man in the Arctic circle.

Granted, he's probably the only man left in the Arctic circle, but even so...

He kisses her forehead, trying not to think about how cold she is. Trying not to wonder how long they've got before they freeze to death or the Zs get them. "It's okay. I shouldn't have asked."

And then she's kissing him, hard and hungry. Simon kisses her back, desperate for warmth and human contact. It's been a while since they last had sex, certainly not since the siege began, and although he's taken aback by how much he wants her, he supposes he shouldn't be. It's the passion of survivors, of people close to death, grabbing at whatever lifelines they can.

She sits astride him, reaching down to fumble at their clothes. Simon has just enough time to think _condoms_ , and then it's too late, he's inside her, and she's moving in a way that makes him wild, and he can't do anything but sit up, knotting his fingers in her tangled hair and kiss her like they're both going to die tomorrow. And maybe they are, but right now he doesn't care, right now he just wants to stay inside her for as long as possible. For as long as he can make it last.

But it can't last. It never does. She spasms against him, presses her face into his parka to muffle the moan that wrenches from her throat. The sound of it is too much for him and he comes too.

They both recover, panting and trembling, Pressed together, listening to the silence of the compound in case they've disturbed anything. All Simon can hear is the dog's breathing beside them.

"I think we're okay," he whispers, and she slips off him. They rearrange their clothing in the darkness, and he sighs with something that might almost be contentment as they settle down together.

He tells himself he'll get up in a minute. Take his position near the barricade to watch for zombies. Only he just wants to stay with her for a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer. He's going to get up any minute now.

Simon falls asleep.

* * *

He jolts awake, taking a second to remember where he is. "Damn," he whispers.

When Faye moves beside him, she makes him jump. He thought she was asleep. "What's wrong?"

"I fell asleep. I should have been keeping watch. If something had–"

"I was awake," she tells him. "I was keeping watch."

"You should have woken me up." He settles back down, still annoyed with himself. But he's feeling stronger; who knew all it would take was sex and some sleep?

"I figured you needed it. I know I haven't been much use lately."

He squeezes her hand. "That's not true."

"It absolutely is, but thanks for lying."

"You give me strength," he tells her. "I'm not sure I could do this if it wasn't for you."

"You managed it for over a year without me," she reminds him. "You're tougher than you think, Simon."

He glances in the direction of the barricade. "Maybe, but I'd say things are pretty different now. I wasn't prepared for this."

"No one could have been."

 _I should have been._ He'd known the airplane was out there. Somewhere. He should have gone looking for it, dealt with the Zs while they were frozen. Then he and Faye wouldn't be stuck in this nightmare.

The darkness is receding. He can just about see her outline now. He glances up at the hole in the roof. Cold light is starting to filter through. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not sure. A couple of hours."

She's lying. It has to have been longer than that if it's getting light already. "You must be exhausted," he tells her. "Get some sleep."

She shakes her head. "I don't think I could if I wanted to. I've been thinking."

"The three little words everyone wants to hear in the zompocalypse." He would have preferred 'I love you.' "What about?"

"Leaving."

The word catches him like a boot to the gut. He looks away, stares at the shaft of light streaking through into the room. It catches on the shattered shards of his screens. "'Leaving'," he repeats. A cold rage is rising inside him, born of futility and despair. "So you're gonna do the Captain Oates thing? Brave and noble and idiotic? You're going to leave me?"

"No, Simon. No. If we go, we go together."

"Faye, the mission is still a go. Murphy's alive. If we can get him to California..."

"...We can save the world. Yes, I know. I'm not talking about giving up the mission."

"Then what? What are you thinking?"

She pauses. Now he can just about see her face. Her eyes are gilded by the morning light, shining in the gloom. The rest of her is still a shadow. "We load up the sleds. Take whatever supplies we can get, but mainly diesel. As much food and fuel as we can carry. And we leave. _Both_ of us."

"We go to the boat," he says, realising what she's driving at. It could work – he still has his link to the outside world in the form of the tablet. And outside he'd get more light, be able to get more life out of the solar panel.

She nods. "It might not work. Chances are the boat'll be frozen in pack ice. I might be able to get it free, but if not... We could be stuck there until the ice melts. And it could have been crushed beyond repair. It's a tough little boat, but even so..."

"Got to be better than sitting here waiting to die. You think we can survive out there?"

"I made it here, didn't I?"

 _We could do it_ , he thinks. _We actually could freaking do it._ Escaping from the Arctic, always a remote, impossible hope, now seems within his grasp for the first time. But thinking it through is a terrifying, dizzying prospect; how the hell are they going to load up the sled with the facilities crawling with Zs?

"Simon?"

"I'm thinking." They'd need to make as few trips as possible. Make a makeshift sled and load it up with as much as they can in one go. If they run into trouble, they make a stand.

That's a terrifying thought, but it won't be long before one of the Zs stumbles across them. The sound of gunfire will draw more, until Simon and Faye are overrun. And maybe he'll be able to mercy her in time, but maybe he won't and she'll live out eternity shambling around the ruins of the facility, a spectre in a bloody orange parka until she's lost to the ice.

What choice do they have?

"Simon?"

"It could work," he says, and he's surprised at how much suppressed excitement is in his voice. "I think we could actually do it."

Faye smiles. It's the first time he's seen her smile in what seems like forever, and it is just about the most beautiful thing he's seen in his entire life. "I'm glad you're here," he says, and leans forward to kiss her.

Somewhere outside there is a thump, and they press together, sharing a desperate frightened glance as they hear the snarling of a Z.


	21. Lost in the Fog

**Chapter Twenty-One**

 **Lost in the Fog**

Simon raises a finger to his lips. Outside the zombie draws closer, its gait uneven. She can smell it now, a sour reek of decay so thick she can almost taste it on her tongue. It passes by the barricade, then stops. Simon's eyes flutter closed. and when he opens them again, his expression has changed. His fear has been replaced by grim determination, and she thinks again that something has changed in him since he went out to get the guns. There's a grit in him that wasn't there before, and it gives her hope.

Slowly, he reaches for his handgun. She tenses at the scrape it makes against the concrete. His eyes flit towards her as he raises it. _Too loud,_ he mouths.

She nods. He's right; one gunshot will have the rest of the Zs down on them in a matter of moments. And it won't take them long to push the barricade down. Except they have no other way of killing the Z, since she left her hunting knife lying on her bunk.

Rather than a place of haven, the control room is starting to feel like a trap.

She nudges him, jerks her head towards the hole in the ceiling. He follows her gaze, chewing reflexively on his lower lip. It's high up, but with a crate on the desk, they should be able to reach it. If they can just–

The zombie is staring in at them.

Faye and Simon scramble to their feet. Simon flings himself against the barricade as the zombie lunges at it from the other side. Faye snatches up the golf club, jabs it through the holes in the barricade at the zombie's head.

The stench makes her want to retch. She swallows down saliva, grimacing in fear and disgust. Half the Z's face has been burnt, the flesh of its cheek stripped away to reveal clenched blackened teeth and the gleaming white curve of a jaw bone. One eye is a wet mess, the other white and devoid of anything other than hunger. She won't be able to kill it like this, but maybe she can pop its other eyeball so it's blind. The thought makes her want to retch again.

They're losing the battle.

Simon's feet skid against the concrete as he presses his back against the crates. He lifts the gun. "I think I'm gonna have to shoot it."

In the distance she hears the noise of the other Zs. "It'll make too much noise."

"We're _already_ making too much noise."

Before Faye can reply the Z grabs the golf club and wrenches it out of her hands. She slams against the barricade as the club clatters on the concrete. She screams inwardly, furious at herself. _Stupid, stupid–_

The Z reaches through a gap in the barricade and grabs a handful of her hair. It's strong, impossibly strong, lifting her nearly off her feet. It's agonising. She hears the Velcro of hair being ripped from her scalp and the zombie is clawing at her with its other hand, tearing at her hood, pulling the parka so tight around her neck she cannot breath.

Panic rises inside her, blinding her with terror, because she can't breathe. If it wasn't for the zombie choking her, she'd be screaming. Terrified choking breaths escape her, and she's back in the darkness again, an arm around her throat–

The gunshot is impossibly close. The grip around her neck loosens and she crumples to the floor, scrabbling at her throat. She sucks in air, tears freezing on her cheeks, jolts as Simon drops to hold her. He helps her up, presses his forehead against hers. Her ears are ringing from the gunshot, and it's a moment before she can work out what he's saying.

"Get a crate on the desk."

Outside, the thud of running boots. The shriek of a Z. She stumbles backwards, still dazed.

 _Don't be so fucking useless,_ Lars spits at her.

Still it's not until Simon gives her the gentlest push that she spins around and hauls a crate up onto the desk. His record collection cascades onto the floor.

More Zs are flinging themselves against the barricade, dragging and shoving crates. One jerks one of the office chairs free and the crates above it come crashing down. Simon flinches, backing away, firing wildly. Faye climbs onto the desk. "Simon!"

"Go!" he yells at her, pulling the trigger. There's a cold empty click: he's out of bullets. "Shit!"

She climbs onto the crate as he scrambles onto the desk. Faye straightens up, makes a jump for the hole. Her bare hand seizes to the freezing metal of an exposed girder, and she rips it away with a cry of pain. The girder has taken a layer of skin from her palm and as she reaches through the hole she leaves droplets of blood scattered on the snow like berries. Simon gives her a boost with his linked fingers and she claws at the snow. For a horrible moment, she thinks she's not going to fit, but then she's through. A mist has descended, dense and damp, clinging to her with wet fingers.

In moments her stinging hand is numb.

She turns back to the hole as Simon chucks the gun through. He's about to climb up himself, then he turns back to grab the box of bullets.

"Simon!"

"We're screwed without them," he says, throwing them up.

She holds out her bloodied hand as he climbs onto the crate. His eyes widen as he sees the blood, but he takes hold of it, tenses to jump.

And the zombies crash through the barrier, howling. They surge through, colliding with Simon, knocking the crate off the desk. His hand is torn from hers. She's almost jerked back through the hole, and all she can hear is her own voice screaming his name.

When one of the Zs makes a grab for her she flings herself backwards, breathing hard.

 _No, no, no!_

She can't see him. She can't fucking see him. Nothing below but the wreckage of the room and the three zombies snarling up at her. She grabs the gun, almost too scared to look at their faces in case he's turned, in case he's amongst them, but they're all in army fatigues. No parka.

 _That doesn't mean he's alive,_ a sly voice inside her says.

She clenches her jaw, raises the gun, her hand trembling. Then she remembers it's out of bullets. "Damn it." Her mind goes blank, and it's a moment before she remembers what to do. Her hand shakes as she ejects the magazine. _Okay, that's it._ But her hands are shaking so much now that she spills bullets all over the snow. She screams in rage and frustration.

"You stupid, useless _cunt_!"

She claws around in the snow for as many bullets as she can, loads the magazine with eight rounds. .

 _If he hadn't gone back for the fucking bullets–_

She makes a noise in her throat, something between a sob and a groan. Then she slams the magazine back in the pistol and pulls back the slide mechanism. Then she aims, focuses the laser sight on the first Z and she pulls the trigger and the Z drops.

The next one is harder. Her hands are shaking badly now and her hand is burning with pain. She clips it in the shoulder, sucks in air, lines up the shot again. This time it drops, as do the next two.

She leans into the hole, deeper now than she dared to before, even though it occurs to her that a Z could leap out of nowhere and drag her down. Lurking like a trapdoor spider. "Simon?"

Below there's nothing but silence, the ruin of the room, the dead zombies. There's no sign of him.

 _That's got to be a good thing,_ she thinks. If he'd turned, surely she would have seen him. She swallows, counts to three, bracing herself to drop back down through the hole, and oh God, she can't do it. If she gets stuck... If one of those Zs below isn't completely dead...

 _Coward._

By now, she's shaking, her whole body numb from sitting in the snow. She can barely see three feet in front of her.

She pushes herself up and then she's off and running, circling around towards the main hanger. She's running so fast she doesn't see the Z lying half-hidden in the snow, and she trips, sprawling on the freezing ground. She rolls, gasping, the zombie clawing its way towards her, dragging its ruined leg behind it. It grabs her ankle, snarling, sinks its teeth into her boot, shaking its head like a terrier with a rat in its teeth.

Faye presses the muzzle of the gun to its temple. Pulls the trigger. Splatters blood on the snow.

She drags herself up. How many rounds left? She's already lost count. Shivering, she limps on, but slower now, because she's lost her way in the fog, and isn't sure which way to go. She listens but can't hear a thing. She could be facing the wrong way, lose herself forever in the wilderness.

 _The tracks, you idiot. Follow the tracks._

She backtracks to the dead Z, checks its leg. It looks like a bullet wound, so it must have come from the base. Its cheek rests on the snow like it's a pillow. He's just a kid, younger even than Simon, and she takes a deep breath, swiping her cheeks. The Z has left a trail in the snow, and she follows it, moving slower now, ready in case anything emerges from the fog. All she can hear is the crunch of her boots in the snow, her own panting breath.

The ruined wall of the base looms out of the gloom. She raises the gun, edging closer. On the threshold she falters, because the fog is _inside_ , drifting around the pillars like a living thing.

She steps backwards, a fist of dread closing around her heart. In that instant, she's back in her nightmare, stumbling about in the fog, searching for his mangled corpse. She can't do it, not again.

 _You have to, Faye. If he's alive–_

"But he's not," she whispers.

 _Then if he's turned, you have to end him. You owe him that._

She thinks about the first time she ever met him, the light of hope in his eyes, and she swallows, forces herself on inside. Angling to the right, she moves towards the control room, listening out for footsteps, any sign of life. Thankfully, the fog isn't as bad as it looks; it clears quickly.

The control room is a ruin. The remains of the barricade cascade across it like rubble. She picks up the golf club, glancing behind her as a howl echoes through the facility. _Not close,_ she thinks, although the fog distorts sound; they could be anywhere.

At least the control room is clear of the fog. She climbs over the crates, wincing when they shift beneath her weight, threatening a minor avalanche, the noise of which would no doubt bring the rest of the Zs running full pelt towards her.

How many left? More than she can handle on her own, she's pretty sure. More than she has bullets for.

Cautiously, she makes her way to the pile of dead Zs. She glances under the desk, just in case he's hiding there, but there's nothing there. And the dog? What the hell happened to the dog?

She starts at the tinny voice on the radio. At first she thinks it might be him, but it's a woman's voice.

"Citizen Z, I know you're out there."

She snatches up the radio. "He's not here." And in the silence she can hear how high and unnatural her voice sounds, the strain and the fear and the edge of hysteria. She sounds like at any moment she might start screaming and never stop.

"Is everything okay over there?"

She knows that voice. It's Addison Carver. A zombie shriek echoes somewhere behind her. Closer, she thinks. "No, not really. We're having some zombie issues."

"Copy that. Where's Citizen Z?"

She squeezes her eyes shut. "I think he's dead." The moment she says the words she knows it's true. If he's dead, he'll have turned. She needs to...

"Oh," Addy says softly. "Crap."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry... Only... We need the GPS coordinates again. We didn't get them all last time. We need–"

"Are you fucking _serious_?" Through her fear and panic rage is mounting. These people. These fucking people. Leaving him lonely for weeks, sometimes months, at a time, like he's some kind of zombie apocalypse helpline, and not a survivor who's as helpless and frightened as they are. "I don't give a fuck about your fucking coordinates. He's _dead_ and I can't–" Her voice breaks. She presses the back of her hand against her mouth, fighting tears. If she starts crying now she'll never be able to stop. When she speaks again her voice is cold. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

"Wait–"

She throws the radio on the desk, raising the gun.

 _Hold on to that anger, Faye._ It's Lars's voice. Just what she fucking needs. _It'll keep you alive._

She hates him, but she knows he's right. So she nurtures it, stirring up every scrap of fury, bitterness and resentment that she can find. She feeds the flames, because in the heat of the fire, her fear recedes.

In the hanger she hears the thump of footsteps to her right.

She calls his name as loudly as she dares. The clatter of boots on the metal walkway. The snarl of a Z. She takes the steps slowly, not knowing what she will do if it's him.

 _Exactly what you should have done with Deepak,_ she tells herself. _And Lars._

A bullet in the brain. He's dead already; it won't hurt him.

Only she's never done it to someone she knows. Someone she cares about. She couldn't do it for Deepak or Lars... She swallows; _still a coward at heart._

She can see the Z now, a dark shape in the gloom. _Not him._

As she brings the gun to bear, it turns towards her so slowly its bones creak. It's huge; at least two heads taller than her, and built like a brick shithouse. It snarls, baring blackened teeth, and as it starts to come towards her, she hears boots coming up the steps behind her.

 _Oh fuck._

Fear swamps her like an incoming tide. She shoots, catches the shithouse in the face, ripping away his cheek. Not enough, and the panic is rising within her. The flame of her anger has gone out; now there is nothing but terror.

 _An arm clamping around her neck from behind._

She spins at the sound of snarls behind her. Two more Zs loping along the walkway.

 _Not him. Not him. Neither of them._

"Screw this." She aims, drops the first Z with one shot, and then it's too late and the second Z is on her. It slams her into the railing; agony shoots up the small of her back. Its teeth snap inches from her cheek. She brings the gun around, presses the muzzle against its forehead, pulls the trigger.

There's an empty click. She's out of bullets.

"Fuck!"

Cold radiates from the Z; its saliva sprays on her cheek. She closes her eyes, thinks of Simon. The first time they made love, the expression in his eyes as he slid inside her, hope and desire and the faintest trace of disbelief.

Brick shithouse is almost on them.

She's going to die, but Simon's not going to be the one that kills her. That's something at least. The thinnest sliver of a silver lining. A small mercy. She doesn't want his dead face to be the last thing she sees, nothing in his eyes but empty hunger.

She hits at the Z with the butt of the handgun, but she's fighting to keep it off her and she can't get the leverage and its teeth are inching closer to her cheek. She can see its tongue, rolling in its mouth like a fat slug. And she wishes desperately that she had one bullet left. Just one. Because she doesn't want to turn. She doesn't want to become one of them.

She can't fight any more. She closes her eyes, ready for its teeth to close on her cheek. The Z slams up against her. She hears a hot, wet squelch, but it's not biting her. Her eyes snap open.

It's Simon, struggling to jerk a knife from the base of the Z's skull. He has the sniper's rifle slung over his shoulder. The shithouse growls. "Go," Simon tells her. "Faye, go!" He jerks the knife free and grabs her arm. She stares at him in disbelief.

"You're alive."

"Yeah, for now."

The shithouse lunges at them. Simon shoves her and they run, stumbling down the metal staircase and on towards the control room.


	22. The Stand

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

 **The Stand**

"Holy shit." Simon steps carefully around the pile of dead Zs and looks at Faye with respect. "Did you..."

"Like shooting fish in a barrel. And I still wasted bullets." Her voice is bitter. She's staring oddly at him, a strange wild light in her eyes that makes him uneasy.

"You did good, Faye. This is–"

She comes at him without warning, kisses him so hard it's almost painful. Their teeth clash, and she pulls away, presses her face into his parka. "You bastard," she mutters. "I thought you were dead."

He strokes her matted hair. "Takes more than a couple of Zs to kill me. Apparently." Truth is he can't quite believe it himself. "They were after you, Faye. I don't think they even saw me. I got lucky."

"I was so scared."

He kisses her, gently now. When he pulls away, her expression is miserable.

"I don't have any bullets left." She nods to the sniper's rifle. "Have you–"

"No." And then, as her expression contorts in despair, "It's okay."

"No, it's not. That Z is fucking huge. What are we going to do, throw your bloody records at it? This isn't _Shaun of the_ fucking _Dead._ "

"We're gonna be fine. Think for a minute, Faye. How many did you kill?"

"Um..." She closes her eyes. "These four, one outside, one on the walkway."

"Six?" He gives a low whistle. "Damn, you really are a badass."

She gives him a tight smile. "Really, really not." Her hysteria is starting to ebb, but she keeps touching him, as if she can't quite believe he's actually there.

"I think the big guy, Lieutenant Davies–"

She shudders. "For fuck's sake, Simon. Don't _name_ them."

"Sorry. But I think he's the last one left. If we bring him down, we're safe. Well... safe as we can be. We might not have the gun, but maybe we got something better." He pulls out the bag containing the missile launcher, unzips it, runs his hand over the dull metal. "If only I knew how to use the damn thing. If we could get in touch with Operation Bitemark–"

She draws in her breath sharply. "Shit, I completely forgot. They radioed in. I..." She grimaces. "I sort of told them to fuck off."

His eyes widen. "Faye!" And then, when she flinches at his tone, he forces himself to calm down. She's pale and frightened, and it's not like he hasn't had moments when he's wanted to tell them to go screw themselves himself. "What did they want?"

"The coordinates. They didn't get them all the first time. But..." She waves her hand at the mess in the room.

"Yeah. Crap. Okay, can you try to get back in touch with them? I'll find the coordinates. They gotta be here somewhere."

She nods and sinks down at the desk, tugs the portable radio towards her. "Delta-X-Ray-Delta, this is Camp Northern Light. Do you copy?"

He rifles through the drift of records on the floor, jerks crates aside, horribly aware of how much noise he's making. He grabs a sheaf of papers, shuffling through them. Why the hell hadn't he put it someplace safe?

The radio crackles, and he glances back at her. "We read you, Northern Light." It's Addy.

Faye's shoulders sag with relief. "Thank God. Listen, we don't have much time. Battery's running low. Have you got a pen? We'll have those coordinates for you in just a moment." She raises her eyebrows urgently at him. He throws his hands up in desperation, then his gaze falls on the pile of zombies. _Maybe._..

"You guys okay up there?" Addy is saying.

"Turns out we're both alive."

"Counts as okay in my book."

"Yeah." Faye sighs. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier. It was a bad time." _Hurry the fuck up, Simon,_ she mouths.

Grimacing, he slides his arms under the top zombie, rolls it over, trying not to retch at the smell.

"Copy that," Addy says. "Had plenty of those, believe me." There's a pause and when she speaks again, she sounds amused. "So you two _are_..."

"Yeah," Faye says, glancing at Simon. "We are."

 _Are they gossiping about me?_ Despite the stink of the zombie, he can't stop a grin from spreading over his face. He heaves the last Z aside and there is is, the scrap of paper with the coordinates scrawled on it. "Got it!"

"Finally!" Faye snatches it from his hand and reads out the coordinate. While Addy repeats them back, Simon tugs the missile launcher out from its bag. "Hey,Addy, we might need some help ourselves. There's one Z left, but he's built like Schwarzenegger, and we're completely out of bullets. I don't suppose anyone there knows how an AT4 anti-tank missile launcher works?"

Warren takes over. "I can talk you guys through it. Is it in front of you?"

Faye glances at him. "Si– Uh, Citizen Z has it. Hold on, let me pass you onto him." She slips the radio into his pocket, hooks the headset over his ears, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her lightly, figuring it might be his last chance. She leans into him, and he sees how tired she is, how sunken her eyes are. "We can fucking do this," she says. "Right?"

"Right." He sounds more confident than he feels, and he takes a breath, wishing his heart wasn't pounding so hard behind his ribs.

"You ready?" Warren asks.

 _I'll never be ready. Not for this._ He kind of feels like he might faint. They've gone so long without having a proper meal, a decent night's sleep. Impossible with the storms, the constant fear that a Z might stumble across them. "Not yet. Let me get into position."

Faye picks up the golf club, weighs it in her hands. The sight of her with a weapon jogs his memory and he curses, pulls her knife out from the belt of his combats. "This is yours."

He supposes he should be worried about how her eyes light up. Almost as if he'd given her jewellery and not a brutal hunting knife with a razor-sharp serrated edge.

"My knife!"

"I found it in your room. The dog's hiding safely under your bed."

She snorts. "Can I join him?"

Simon takes her hand. She winces, and he frowns, turns it over. The skin of her palm has been stripped away, revealing red, raw flesh beneath. His lips press together in sympathy. "I'd be happier if you did."

"Screw you, Cruller."

"Take it that's a no?"

She flashes him a dangerous look. "Are we going to do this thing or what?"

"Yeah." Only now that he looks at her, golf club in one hand, knife in the other, he's no longer sure he can do it at all. _Come on_ , he thinks. _One last push. One last Z. WWWD. What would Warren do?_

Still he'd feel happier if Faye was safe. "Are you sure you won't–"

In answer she pushes past him, peers out into the corridor. Then she clambers over the barricade, and turns, holding her arm out to him. He follows, the missile launcher cradled like a baby in his arms. Christ, he hopes this works.

They can hear the Z as they edge out into the hanger, but the sound is distorted and they can't tell what direction it's coming from. Simon swallows presses up against a pillar. "You getting all this, Warren?"

"Yeah, still here. You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Okay." And she talks him through it, calm, rational, patient. It gives him time to slow his breathing, to focus on the task at hand.

"Simon," Faye says, her voice urgent. "I think it's coming."

"Shit." And she's right; he can hear the Z now, its howls drawing closer. "How do I fire this thing?" he asks Warren.

"Fold up the sight. Slide back the trigger guard till it locks. With the tube on your shoulder, use the sight to aim and pull the trigger."

He nods, does as she says. Lifts the launcher onto his shoulder. It's surprisingly light for something so deadly. And then he hesitates, because Faye is looking at him strangely. "What?"

"Maybe it's hysteria and terror and borderline starvation talking but I think that's just about the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

"You're _so_ full of shit," he says, grinning.

"No, seriously, Simon. You kill that thing, and I am going to shag your brains out. Figuratively speaking, of course."

"Well, _that's_ a relief."

The radio crackles. "Uh... You guys do know we're all still here right? There's about thirty people listening in," Warren says.

Faye blushes scarlet, and Simon fights helpless laughter, his shoulders shaking. Only then it's not funny at all because the hulking mass of flesh and muscle that used to be Lieutenant Andy Davies has burst through the doorway at the other end of the hanger.

Simon squints down the sight, fixes on the Z, and fires.

Nothing happens.

 _Shit. Shit shit shit._ He ducks behind the pillar again, meets Faye's wide, frightened eyes. "It did not fire. Repeat, it did not fire."

"The battery's just cold," Warren tells him, and he has to bite back a retort, because seriously? Of course it's fucking _cold_. Does she not realise he's in the middle of the fucking Arctic?

 _Could have mentioned that sooner, Warren._

He flips over the launcher. Takes out the battery. "Got it. Now what?"

"You need to put the battery someplace warm."

He casts around, then, aware of Faye's raised eyebrows, he stuffs the battery down his pants, tucking it into his boxers. Best he can do.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't see that," Faye says.

He shrugs. "Someplace warm."

"I don't even wanna know," Warren mutters.

And Faye glances around the edge of the pillar. "It's coming. How long do you think it'll take that battery to warm up?"

"I don't know. It's pretty cold." He grimaces. "And pointy."

"I think we'll have to run for it." She feels for his hand, gives it a quick squeeze. "Ready? One, two–"

The zombie roars, sprints at them.

"Fuck! Go." They run, and as Simon glances back he realises that the zombie seems faster than before, as if all the exertion and the promise of hot, fresh brains has protected it from the stultifying affects of the cold. It doesn't help that he can feel the sharp edges of the battery jabbing into him at every stride. And on top of that, it's slipping. Out of his boxers, and down, sliding down the leg of his pants. He slaps his hand on it, trying to keep it from falling any further, but he can't run like that.

Faye glances back, alarmed. "Simon–"

"The battery. It's..."

Her gaze darts over his shoulder, towards the oncoming Z. He sees her expression turn from panic to grim determination. And then she turns, raising the golf club into a fighting stance as he passes her.

"Faye!"

She ignores him, circling around the Z. All he can think is how small and slight and helpless she looks, and any fantasies he may have harboured about the two of them turning into hard ass zombie fighters now just seem utterly ridiculous. They're going to get themselves killed with this nonsense.

 _We should just have left,_ he thinks. _What the_ _hell was I thinking?_

There's a look of exhilaration in Faye's eyes, but he can tell she's exhausted. She's fighting because she can't run any more, he thinks, and he feels a surge of fury at himself for failing to protect her. That's all he ever wanted to do. Well, that and save the world.

She swings the club. The Z grabs it, twists it back, moves in close to her. And she cries out as it grabs her hair, wrenches her head back.

 _Oh fuck._ Simon throws the rocket launcher aside, stumbles towards her, the sharp, cold edges of the battery stabbing into his balls. Faye stabs the knife up through the underside of the Z's jaw. Not far enough to hit the brain. Simon wrenches the golf club from the Z's grip. The Z's attention whips towards him, its cold dead eyes focusing on him.

He's taller than Faye, has more reach; maybe he can beat the fucker to death. But as he wraps his fingers around the club, he knows it's impossible. He's been starving for weeks now; his muscles are wasted, weak and shaky, and all he wants to do is curl up into a ball and weep in terror.

Faye tries to grab her knife, but she can't get it loose. It catches on the Z's jawbone. She backs off as the Z swings towards her. She's unarmed, totally helpless, and Simon yells, charging forwards to hit it with the club. Barely hard enough to do much more than draw its attention back to him. It swings between them, knife wedged in its throat.

 _Oh God_ , he thinks. _We're going to die. Whose stupid fucking idea was this?_

When Faye speaks her voice tight, contained. "Simon, you think that battery's hot enough yet?"

Christ, he hopes so. "Let's find out."

"Run like bloody fuck?" she suggests. He nods; she's already tensing, ready to sprint. "Go!"

The zombie roars as they run. But both of them too slow, too weak. No way they'll be able to outrun it for too long. Simon snatches up the missile launcher, skidding, losing his balance. Feels the air current above his head as the zombie swipes at him. Faye screams his name, and then he's up and running again, the missile launcher cradled in his arms, battery jabbing into him with every stride.

But the Z isn't after him; it's charging towards Faye., He skids to a halt, certain that she's screwed, that she's too exhausted to run or fight any more, and then she's moving backwards, "I'll lead it back around," she calls to him.

"Wait Faye!"

It's too late, she's gone, sprinting outside, the Z on her heels. And even then, Simon is frozen for a few moments, too terrified and numb to move. It's Warren's voice who spurs him back to action. "Hey. Citizen Z?"

He draws in a breath, furious with himself for zoning out. "Yeah, I'm here."

He fishes the battery from his boxer shorts, replaces it in the launcher, trying not to think about Faye, the danger she's in. He can hear the zombie shrieking, drawing closer, and he runs, scrambles up onto a table.

A shape bursts through the plastic flaps. It's Faye, head down, hood back. Her hair is a tangle, and for a horrible moment he's certain she's turned, that she's dead and coming for him. His grip loosens on the missile launcher, because he can't – not if she's dead; he can't do this without her, and then a shadow appears behind the plastic flaps, and the Z bursts through.

He clenches his jaw. He still isn't sure whether Faye is alive or dead, but he's going to kill this fucking bastard if it's the last thing he does. Even if it's killed Faye.

 _Especially_ if it's killed Faye.

He'll claw its brain out through its fucking eye sockets if he has to.

The Z is behind her, close on her heels. Too close.

Simon draws a breath, screams, "Faye, get down!" And she flings herself to the floor as he fires. The missile surges over the Z's head, and all he can do is watch in numb horror, because he's missed.

He's fucking _missed._

The missile hits the wall behind the Z, explodes. And a surging wave of fire roils out, spreading out, engulfing everything in its path.


	23. Survivor's Guilt

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

 **Survivor's Guilt**

As the wave of fire subsides, the zombie burns. Its screeches fall silent as it collapses to the ground, a smouldering hulking ruin. Simon drops the missile launcher and scrambles off the table, runs to where Faye lies rolled into a ball. As he approaches, a memory of the first moment he ever saw her flashes through his mind: her body lying crumpled on the snow, his certainty that she was already dead.

He swallows, fighting a wave of dizziness. "Faye? Are you-" He breaks off as her body uncurls. She coughs. It's a wheezing rattling sound and it makes him falter, bright terror searing through him. But then he sees that her eyes are normal. She's alive. Her skin is scorched, and she smells faintly of burning hair, but she's _alive_.

"I'm okay." Her voice is hoarse.

"Oh, thank God."

She pushes herself into a sitting position, and together they stare at the blackened remains of the body that once belonged to Lieutenent Andrew Davies. Her eyes turn back to him, wide and astonished. "You fucking did it."

He laughs helplessly, so hard he has to bend over, gulping for breath., fighting the urge to puke his guts out all over the concrete. Then he straightens up, brings the radio to his mouth. "Zombie down," he says. "Repeat, zombie down."

And as cheering erupts half a world away, he sinks down beside her on the freezing concrete, dazed and exhausted and exhilarated. Because she's right; they've done it. God only knows how, but somehow, miraculously, they're both still alive.

* * *

The first thing they do is eat, devouring MREs in the kitchen with the dog under the table, wolfing food from his bowl. When they're finished, they retreat to bed. The window in Simon's room is broken so they go to Faye's old room instead, dragging a heavy trunk in front of the door. He's fairly sure all the Zs are dead now, but better not to risk it. They lay out their meagre arsenal by the bed, gather all the blankets from the other bunks, and finally strip naked and climb shivering into bed, filthy, bruised and battered, sweat chilling on their skin. Beneath the mound of blankets it's almost warm.

Faye takes first watch, mainly because she can't bear the thought of sleep, of the dreams that lie in wait for her. As soon as Simon's head hits the pillow he's asleep.

She's so exhausted that the voices in her head have stilled. It might have been a blessing, except that every time she closes her eyes she's back by the hole, seeing the dead faces stare up at her. Only this time he's one of them.

She loses track of the time, but he's been asleep for at least a couple of hours before he stirs beside her, moaning in his sleep. She places a hand on his chest and he jerks awake with a gasp. "Faye?"

"Yeah. Who were you expecting? Lieutenant Davies? Murphy?"

"Hey," he mutters, sleepily. "No Murphy talk in bed, remember."

He smells of exertion, of sweat fresh and not so fresh. She burrows deeper into his side, thinking it's probably one of the best things she's ever smelled, because it's not rot and decay. No dead thing could smell so alive.

"I think we're safe," she says. "I haven't heard anything."

He kisses the top of her head. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Not sure. A couple of hours."

He sighs. "I thought you were gonna wake me after an hour. You need to sleep too, Faye."

"Not sure I could if I wanted to." Only now that she's lying beside him her eyes are starting to feel heavy. She lets them slide closed, feels sleep slipping closer.

And then Simon speaks and her eyes snap open again. "We've got a lot to do tomorrow," he says. "If we're gonna do this..."

"This?"

"If we're going to leave."

She lifts her head. The faintest of lights is starting to filter through the blinds. She can just make out his profile. "You still want to go."

"Yeah, of course. Don't you?"

"It's just... the Zs are gone now. We might be safer staying here."

"And do what? Wait until we both freeze to death? I'm down to my last battery. Everything's dead or dying... I'd rather take my chances out there."

Her mouth has gone dry. The thought of leaving fills her with a strange dizzying horror. She doesn't konw what to say, so instead she changes the subject. "You're not worried I'm a hallucination any more, I take it?"

He chuckles. "Hell no. You're as real as I am."

"You seem very sure all of a sudden."

He clears his throat. "Well, yeah. Um... how do I put this? I'm messed up, but even my subconcious wouldn't be able to come up with such a fragrant hallucination."

"You cheeky fucker. Are you saying I smell?"

He rolls towards her, kisses her neck. "I didn't say you smelled bad, did I?"

"It was implicit." She pokes him in the chest. "And by the way, you smell pretty ripe yourself."

"Damn, I was gonna blame that on the dog."

Her laugh turns into a yawn. She rests her head on his chest, signs long and deep as he strokes her hair.

"Promise me we'll go," he says.

"We will," she says. "But it's not going to happen tomorrow. If we do this we have to do it properly. Look at us, Simon. We're exhausted, shell-shocked. Not to mention half-starved. If we don't give ourselves time to recover, the journey could very well kill us."

 _And it could very well kill us anyway, s_ he thinks, but she's tired of fatalism. They're alive; they've survived. Somehow. She should be happy.

She _is_ happy.

When she finally falls asleep, she doesn't dream. Or, if she does, she doesn't remember.

* * *

In the morning, they gather all the dead Zs together at the far end of the hanger, line them up in rows. As much as she hated and feared them now they are no longer a threat she feels nothing but hollow pity. Simon has gone quiet, staring at the faces of the dead. She leans against him and he slips his arm around her shoulder. His eyes shine with tears. "It doesn't feel right to leave them like this," he says.

So they wrap the corpses in sheets, wind them in greying, makeshift shrouds, each one draped with a dogtag to mark their identities when they were alive. It's not much of a memorial, but it's the best they can do.

And they start the process of packing, hauling can after can of diesel to the wooden sled. It's hard, exhausting work for two people who are already close to collapse, and there are days when they can barely summon the energy to do more than cling together, shivering, in bed.

Faye's period comes on again, and it feels like she's finally inhaled after holding her breath for weeks. Dizzy relief floods her as she slips from the warmth of the bed, wet and sticky with blood, shivering in the freezing room as she deals with it. Simon stirs, blinking up at her. "Faye?"

"It's nothing?" she tells him. "Go back to sleep."

Faye worries and frets, picking through the stores in a frenzy, trying to decide what they should take. What they shouldn't take. And what Simon should wear. He has no proper underclothes for the Arctic; his array of cotton t-shirts and shirts won't wick the sweat away from his skin. He'll freeze. And she curses herself, because there was spare clothing on the boat; she could have brought them, if she'd only thought... And then she remembers that there's no way she could have forseen this. She's not thinking straight, even now.

 _He'll have to wear mine,_ she thinks. She has more body fat than he does; it'll be easier for her to keep warm.

On top of all that, she's worried about Simon. He's losing momentum. Without the zombies to fight, without his array of screens, his computers and satellite link, his already fragile grasp on hope is starting to slip. He's covering it well, but she can see it in the glances he casts towards the makeshift cemetary at the end of the hanger. In the way his expression darkens when he doesn't think she's looking. And with every day that passes, the quieter he becomes.

She'd hoped to put the journey off for as long as she could, until it's warmer, but she's starting to feel it herself now; the lethargy, the ever-constant cold. The two of them with nothing to do except screw and play shivering games of pool in the rec room, knocking about like ghosts haunting a ruined castle.

Maybe it's cabin fever or survivor's guilt, but he's right; they do have to leave.

They can be each other's world for a little while, but how long can that last, with long months spent in darkness and the freezing cold? If they stay they won't last another year, she's sure of that. And she suddenly finds that she wants to protect this fragile thing that's grown between them. She doesn't know what it is, not yet, but she wants desperately to find out.

And then, when they are close to being ready to go, a storm descends. They drag office chairs out of the control room and barbecue steaks in the hanger, watching the blizzard through the ruined walls, huddling around the grill for warmth.

"We can't leave yet, can we?" Simon asks.

She shakes her head. "Not when the weather's this bad." She's not sure what they will do if a storm descends while they are out there. "Why are you in such a hurry to go?"

"I don't know. I just... I feel like if we don't go soon we never will. That we'll be stuck here for another year."

 _Another winter,_ she thinks. _That's what he's afraid of._

Faye isn't certain what she's most afraid of. In the process of clearing the control room of the corpses, they found two bullets for the hand gun. Exactly two. It feels like a bad omen.

He's looking at her. "You think we should stay don't you?" He sighs, toying with the label on his bottle of beer. "Faye, it that's what you want to do...If you really don't want to do this..."

"You don't know what it's like out there, Simon. It's funny. I only suggested leaving to get away from the Zs. Well..." She gestures to the back of the hanger where they keep the dead. "No Zs. We killed them. Fuck knows how we managed it, but we did. And yet we're still leaving. To go where? And the only answer to that is somewhere with more Zs. And that–" She breaks off to take a swig of beer. The taste makes her feel nauseaus and she wants to spit it out. Instead she swallows it down. "Well, _that_ does not fucking compute."

He looks at her, his expression grave. "Zombies aren't the only threat."

"You're right. There's people too." _Stop it, Faye. You're starting to sound bitter. And drunk._

"Not what I meant."

"I know. I'm sorry." She sighs. "This beer's gone straight to my head."

"Yeah." He stares at the bottle. "Maybe drinking again was a mistake." But neither of them puts the alcohol down. "I know you're afraid, Faye."

"I'm not afraid."

"Oh, come on. Aside from almost getting nuked and dodging Zs I've had almost nothing to do these last few months except get to know you. I can tell when you're afraid."

 _Oh sweetheart,_ she thinks. _You barely know me at all._

Her gaze flits to the far end of the hanger, where shadows skitter in the light of the fire. Where Lars is waiting with the rest of the dead. Simon's right; she is afraid. She's absolutely fucking terrified. Of finding people. Of _not_ finding people. She's not sure which option scares her more.

"We'll stay," Simon says. He's smiling, but his eyes are wide and sad. "If that's what you want." And then he swallows and he's not smiling any more. He stares at the dying coals, as if he can't look at her. "I don't know what happened to you out there. I hope you'll feel able to tell me one day, but I love you, Faye. All I want to do is protect you."

She flinches. "Don't say that!" She didn't mean to sound so sharp, so angry but in the darkness, Lars is laughing at them both. Simon's startled gaze shifts to her; he's clearly trying to keep an expression of hurt from his face.

 _Fucking hell,_ Faye thinks. _We survived the Zs and we're still falling apart. We should be happy. What's wrong with us?_

"I'm sorry," she says, closing her eyes. She has to force the words out. "It's something Lars said to me once. A bad memory. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. You're right. I think it would be a mistake to wait too long." Or is thinking that the mistake? She doesn't know anymore. She glances into the shadows, sipping her beer.

When Simon speaks his voice is low. "Is it Lars?"

Thrown, she glances at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Whoever it is you're looking at." He inclines his head towards the shadows.

Christ, she forgets how perceptive he is. And how he watches her. She runs through her handful of replies, but they all sound hollow and defensive. They all sound like lies. So instead she just nods.

The silence stretches out, filled only by the howling wind. The temperature is dropping; soon the coals will have lost all their heat. "I know what you're thinking," she says. "I'm too old to have an imaginary friend." Not that 'friend' is a word she would ever have used to describe Lars. "I'm not crazy, Simon."

"Never said you were. Not like you have the monopoly on hallucinations. Yuri, remember?"

She shakes her head. "This isn't a hallucination. I lived in my head a lot when I was a kid. Lonely childhood. It's a habit I fell back into on the boat. After... When I was alone. Talking to myself felt like a shortcut to madness, so instead I talked to the dead." She twists her lips. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

He snorts at that. Takes another swig of beer.

Talking seems to have exorcised her ghosts. Lars has gone. No one at the other end of the hanger but the dead.

She shivers. Simon holds out his arms, and she slips onto his chair, wriggles down beside him. He leans his head against hers. "You're not alone anymore, Faye."

"What would you have done if I wasn't here?" she asks.

"Assuming I actually made it this far with my brains intact? I'd probably wait until I'd used up my last battery and then I'd leave. And almost certainly freeze to death because I don't know the first damn thing about the Arctic. I'm glad you're here. Sometimes I wonder if there's another universe out there with another Simon Cruller. One who's still alone. Who still thinks of himself at Citizen Z, like going by a damn pseudonym could somehow make loneliness hurt less."

"That's a sad thought," she murmurs.

"Yeah, and I'm sick of sad thoughts. We're alive, Faye. Isn't that enough? Feels like it should be." He shifts position to look at her. "Can we start over? Pretend we just killed the last Z."

"Poor old Lieutenant Davies."

"Thought you didn't want to name them?"

"It doesn't matter so much now they're dead." She pauses. " _Dead_ dead, I mean. Poor buggers."

"Yeah. So. Whatever happened to screwing my brains out?"

Of all the things he might have said, she wasn't expecting that, and she can't help the bark of laughter that escapes her. He smiles shyly at her, and she laughs again. "I believe the term I used was 'shagging'. And are you seriously going to hold me to a promise I made when I thought we were both going to die?"

He entwines his fingers in hers. "If it means I get to have sex with you? What do you think?"

"Charming." She swigs her beer, looking thoughtful. "Mind you, I did promise. And you _did_ blow up that Z with a missile launcher. And that was bloody awesome, so..."

He laughs. "I was joking, Faye. Trying to lighten the mood."

"Well, it seems to have worked."

"Huh. Who'da thunk it?" He wraps his arms around her, kisses her. Another kind of hunger is opening up inside her. He breaks off the kiss, presses his forehead against hers. He's breathing hard. "Seriously though. I haven't had a chance to clean up. I'm filthy."

"I'm not exactly fresh from the spa either." She nips his earlobe, fingers tangling in his hair. "Do you care? Because I'm not sure I do."

Turns out, he doesn't care either. Quite the opposite in fact.

And afterwards they lie awake in the warm shelter of the bottom bunk, listening to the silence outside. The storm has lifted overnight, and although neither of them says anything, they both know it will soon be time to leave.


	24. Into the Bones

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

 **Into the Bones**

Faye had warned him, but he hadn't been prepared for the drudgery of it, the pain in his shoulders and back from dragging the wooden sled. How the straps rub, even through his parka and the layers of clothing beneath, chafing his skin raw. The snot that dribbles down his chin and freezes in the growth of stubble, how the ski-mask sticks to the underside of his chin, ripping off a layer of skin every time he pulls it up.

But none of it matters, not his numbed hands and feet or the constant ache in his body. Because he remembers something Faye said in the early days, when they were still doing the awkward, uncertain two-step of getting to know each other, back when she was afraid of him for reasons he still doesn't quite understand.

 _This place. It gets into your bones if you let it._

She was right.

There are times when they rest and stare up at the Aurora Borealis streaming across the twilight sky, and he knows that despite the bone-deep cold, the pain in his eyes that feels like specks of grit have lodged beneath his lids, he wouldn't change a thing.

Because he's with Faye. They're here together, fighting to survive, and staring up at the Northern Lights in this ancient unrelenting wilderness is just about perfect.

And at night, they crawl into the two-man tent, shivering, while they help each other off with their clothes, draping them near the cooker to dry, and finally they crawl into the single sleeping bag, their bodies pressed together for warmth. The air is damp with evaporated moisture from their wet clothes, mingled sweat and snow. And even though the heat of the cooker doesn't last, with Faye pressed against him and the husky sprawled across them, he's almost warm.

But Faye is getting quieter and quieter. She watches him when he struggles with the weight of the wooden sled, and tries to persuade him to switch to the lighter fibreglass pulk before it's his turn. And in the tent, when she traces her fingers around the chafed skin on his chest, her eyes are sad.

"I'm sorry, Simon," she says.

"What for?" he asks, and when she's silent for too long, he prompts her. "Faye?"

"It's just..." She closes her eyes, buries her face in the hollow of his neck. "I'm scared this was a mistake. This was my stupid idea."

"Would you rather be back there?" he asks. "Freezing to death?"

"As opposed to being here, freezing to death? We had shelter there. Sort of."

"Yeah, but at least we're doing something. The base was a ruin." He shifts awkwardly in the tight confines of the bag, squirming so that he can tilt her head up to look at him. "We're still fighting, aren't we? "

"Genetically predisposed badasses," she says, in a passable impression of his accent. It's something he said over the radio once, back when he was on the verge of losing his mind.

"Huh. Always did wonder if anyone was listening. If I was just wasting my time."

"I was listening." Her voice is soft. "I'm pretty sure those broadcasts saved my life."

"Not a waste of time then."

"Nope." The temperature is dropping. Faye links hands with him and meets his gaze. She looks younger in the lingering glow from the stove. The mask of toughness she wears has been lowered, and when she speaks her voice is calm and clear. "I love you, Simon."

He draws her into a kiss, slow and tender and gentle, and he no longer cares that they will have to turn the cooker off soon, that the temperature will plummet overnight while they fight for every shivering scrap of sleep.

"Love you too," he whispers when the kiss breaks off.

At the other end of the tent, the dog gives a heavy sigh, lifts his head to fix the two of them with his ice-blue eyes.

"I think we've been told," Faye says. She sounds amused, almost happy.

"Okay, pup, no sappy stuff," Simon tells the husky, grinning. It's a bit late for that. but they settle down,wrapped in each others arms.

* * *

For the first time, he's starting to see that this land he thinks of as desolate and empty is nothing of the kind. It's strange that he spent a year without seeing a single living creature when they reach the crest of a hill and see a herd of musk-oxen cropping lichen from the exposed rocks. Or when Faye points out an Arctic hare springing through the snow away from them. So much life.

And so far none of it Z.

A relief since they have no ammo to speak of, aside from a pair of scrounged bullets from the control room floor. In the end, Faye had decided against bringing the rocket launcher, although she'd vacillated for ages on the decision, and he knows she's still regretting it now. But if they had brought it, she'd probably be regretting that decision too. It's too bulky and they only have one more missile for it in any case.

When he gets the chance he stops to rest, sets up the tablet and the solar panel and tries to contact Operation Bitemark, but he seldom tries for long. He's too conscious of the ground they could be making, of Faye, watching and waiting for him to pack up so that they can get moving again. And although he's desperate to know where they are and how close they are to California, it will have to wait. It isn't like there's much he can do for them with the limited means at his disposal. Much as it pains him.

They pass beneath the shadow of a glacier, where outcrops of ice spill down in a tumble of rough-hewn blocks like stepping stones. The sky is clear, a gleaming shining blue. And when they drink melt water from a shining icicle it's the cleanest and the purest water he's ever tasted and he thinks that this is probably the happiest he has been in years.

And then they find the bear.

It crouches in the shadow of the ice, half-buried in the snow. He cries out involuntarily, but when it doesn't move he realises it's dead. Properly dead.

There's a rifle wound in its skull, and its belly has been ripped oven. Frozen entrails are rimed with hoarfrost. The sight reminds him of his dream, of Faye dead and shambling, wearing the carcass of a bear like a cloak, and for a moment dizziness threatens to overwhelm him. He closes his eyes until he feels a little steadier, until Faye crunches through the snow to stand at his side. They both tug up their ski masks and he regards her uneasily. She almost looks frightened.

"Is it the one you killed?" he asks.

Slowly she shakes her head. "I don't think so."

"Well, somebody shot it."

She shrugs helplessly. "I must be remembering it wrong. You know how messed up I was back then."

He wonders who she's trying to convince, but he nods, because he can see that she's upset and afraid. So they move on. Inwardly, he puzzles over it, because if her first instinct was right, it means that somebody else killed that bear.

It means the two of them aren't alone out here.

* * *

When they see gulls wheeling overhead they know they're close. They camp on the frozen lake, and Faye teases him with a story of how deep the water is beneath the ice. And he can't help it; in the warmth of the tent, he presses against her back, kissed her neck until she arches back against him, moaning softly. But putting on a condom in the tight confines of the sleeping bag proves tricky, especially with the dog watching them both with an expression of weary reproach, and Faye trying to stifle laughter at the expression on his face.

"It's not funny," he says, then swears as he drops the condom. _Again_. "Damn it!"

"Do you want me to..."

"Please?"

She grins, and wriggles her hand down between them to retrieve the condom, slips it on him with a practised hand. And then he's confronted with the fact that if putting a condom on in a one person sleeping bag occupied by two people is hard, actually having sex in a one person sleeping bag occupied by two people is nigh on impossible. Especially when one of those people is having a fit of giggles.

"You're not helping."

"Sorry." She calms her laughter, clears her throat. "Maybe it would help if I turned around?"

It doesn't help. Now he's just wedged up against her, and the sleeping bag has twisted so tightly around them they can barely move. Faye gives a helpless snort, which starts him laughing too. "The dog's looking at us," she says in a mock-whisper, and he laughs harder.

"I don't think this is going to work," he says. "Shall I unzip the sleeping bag?"

"I thought you liked it cosy."

"I like being able to move."

"It is a bit of a squeeze," she says. "Okay, do it. But if that dog bites my arse he's sleeping outside in the cold. You're too bloody soft, Simon."

He nips her neck. "Am I?"

And she chuckles. "Not what I meant."

He wriggles his arm out and unzips the bag. They spill out laughing and shivering in the cooling air of the tent, and suddenly she's beneath him and neither of them is laughing any more. She shifts position and he's inside her, gasping as she arches her hips up towards him.

"We did it," he whispers in her ear. "We actually freaking did it." And he's not sure whether he's talking about the sex, or falling in love, or surviving another winter, or escaping from Camp Northern Light. Maybe all of those things. Maybe something else entirely.

And then she grabs his hair and pulls him down to kiss her and he's lost.

* * *

He's woken by Faye climbing out of the sleeping back. "What–" He breaks off as she presses a finger to her lips, points a finger to the flap of the tent. He listens, but he can't hear anything except the whistling of the wind. Faye's face is strained and tense. She reaches for the handgun, loaded with the two bullets they found in the control room, and edges to the flap of the tent. The nylon whispers as she peels it back and peeks outside.

He hears her inhale sharply and she draws back into the tent, her breath frosting. 'What?' he mouths and she stares at him. There's a strange expression on her face.

'Bear,' she mouths back, and terror streaks through him as if someone has just doused him with a bucket of water. And still Faye doesn't look afraid. She's pulling on her boots, almost looking like she wants to laugh. Her eyes are filled with a wild light.

He nods to the handgun, mouths, 'Can you kill it with that?'

She meets his gaze, slowly shakes her head. And then she leans closer, her breath warm against his cheek. "I'm not going to kill it at all," she says.

 _Okay,_ he thinks. _She has officially lost her mind._

She's pale and strained, but she's smiling. "It's _alive,_ Simon." And then she's pulling away from him, climbing out of the tent.

He pulls on his own boots and scrambles after her. The bear has got into the pulk, and all their supplies have been strewn across the snow. It lifts its head and stares as Faye stands up, aiming the gun into the air above the bear's head. And then she starts shouting. He's terrified, but he joins her, yelling as loudly as he can, thinking that this is absolutely insane; that after surviving nuclear attack and zombies they're going to end up killed by a freaking polar bear. And then Faye fires the gun, shooting twice into the air above the bear's head, and the bear thinks better of making them its dinner, turns and vanishes into the darkness.

Simon sinks down on his haunches, then immediately stands up because it's freezing and he's still in his woollen long johns. "Holy crap. Holy _crap._ "

Faye's grinning as if it's the best thing that's happened to them in months. "It was a bear, Simon. A bear! The first living bear I've seen in over a year. I thought there weren't any left. Can you believe it?" She runs her hand through her hair, eyes shining.

"I can't believe it didn't try to eat us."

"Nah. It knows better than to mess with badasses like us."

"Or maybe it figured there wasn't enough meat on us to make it worth its while." Scared as he is, her excitement is starting to rub off on him.

"Don't you see what it means though? All the predators should have turned by now, even out here. So maybe..."

He takes her hand. "So maybe there's hope? Maybe this zombie apocalypse thing isn't as bad as we thought?"

 _Maybe. If we're lucky._

He hasn't thought of himself as lucky in a long, long time. But thinking back, he's starting to see things differently. If his life had run another path, he might have died in a plane crash with the soldiers and still be out there now, a frozen corpse waiting to be defrosted. He could have died of carbon monoxide poisoning. He might have been killed trying to save the dog or been vaporised by a nuclear blast. He could have succumbed to depression in the near-constant darkness and blown his brains out or choked on his own vomit after one too many whisky miniatures. He might have been killed by the Z polar bear, or any one of the zombies.

There's an almost infinite number of ways he could have died, but none of them happened, and more importantly, he's here, holding hands with a woman he's in love with and who, apparently, loves him right back.

How the hell did that happen?

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

"That maybe the ZN1 virus isn't so ubiquitous after all. That polar bear wasn't starving, Simon. If it was I'm pretty sure we'd be dead right now. It's been feeding on something. And unless it's figured out it needs to bite seals in the head to destroy the brain, somehow the things it's killing aren't turning. So maybe that bear was immune, or the virus hasn't reached all the seals this far north, or..."

"Or?"

She turns on him, her eyes shining. "Or maybe it has an expiration date."

"Huh." He tilts his head, thinking. "So all we have to do is not die and eventually people will stop turning? That's a long shot."

"I know. But since all we have to do to find out is stay alive I think it's worth testing my hypothesis, don't you?"

"'Stay alive.' Copy that. I'll put it right at the top of my to-do list for the week."

She laughs, squeezes his hand. "You better bloody had do. Come on. Let's check out the damage report."

They pack up the sled, gathering what remains of the MREs, and retreat to the tent. Neither one of them feels like sleeping now, not after the bear, so instead they make love again, and curl up in the sleeping bag to wait for the dawn.

And the next day, they strike out, filled with excitement and hope, because the bay where she left the boat is only a few miles away, and because the wind has dropped it's almost warm. His back still aches, but it's more bearable now he knows the journey is almost over. They move along a valley carved by a frozen river, and it opens out onto a bay of gleaming ice. He glances at Faye, wondering where to go next, sees that she is staring down at the bay.

"Is this it?" he asks. She swings her head towards him and although he can't see her face he can see instantly from her posture that something is wrong. Badly wrong.

Because aside from the ice, the bay before them is empty. There is no boat.

* * *

 **A/N: As always, if you've read this far I'd love to hear what you think, so please drop me a review if you have any comments. Thank you for reading, and I hope this chapter wasn't too sappy for you. ;)**


	25. Old Sins, Long Shadows

**A/N: Please note that this chapter contains references to non-consensual sex.**

 **Okay, *deep breath*, I'm a little nervous about this chapter. We're approaching the end-game here, and I think the doubt is starting to kick in. So I'd especially love to hear your thoughts.**

 **As always, thanks for reading.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-Five**

 **Old Sins, Long Shadows**

It isn't possible.

Faye lifts her ski mask. "I don't understand, she says, staring at Simon. Only that's not true, because she'd known, hadn't she? Ever since she saw the bear, butchered in the snow.

In her heart, she'd known.

"Could we have come the wrong way?" Simon asks.

She shakes her head. She recognises an outcrop of rock to her right, a stark obelisk of granite that she'd tied the dinghy to. And the dinghy's gone as well. In the back of her throat she makes a strangled sob, and she sinks to her knees in the snow. She's got them both killed, with her stupid reckless idiot optimism. If they'd stayed at Northern Light they could have held out a little longer, but now? Without the boat? Without shelter?

They have to go back. The realisation chokes her with despair. But they don't have any choice. They can't stay here.

She'd _known_ she hadn't killed that bear. Even though she lied to herself as well as to Simon, told herself she had to be remembering wrong. The alternative was so frightening she'd let the doubt creep in. Let herself think that maybe she was just losing her mind.

But now she knows she wasn't. Because she knows exactly who killed the bear, and who took the boat. She doesn't know how it can be possible, or how he's managed to survive – she'd been so sure he was dead – but Lars is one of the toughest people she's ever known. He has the Arctic in his marrow. If anyone can survive out here, it's him.

She has to tell Simon. Only as she looks at him she can't find the words. He doesn't even look angry, only grave.

"So what do we do now?" he asks, and he sounds so calm it makes her feel worse. She almost wishes he would shout and rail at her instead.

 _My fault,_ she thinks, but right now she needs to hold it together.

She closes her eyes, trying to think. "There's a research centre north of here." She can't remember how far – too far – but right now it's their only chance. "It's where I would have gone next if I hadn't been too scared to make the journey inland on my own." If she hadn't been on the verge of giving up. "But we should go back."

" _No_."

She flinches at the vehemence in his voice. "Northern Light is closer–"

"And it's a ruin." He turns to the sled, hunts through the packs for the tablet and the solar panel. "I'm not going back there, Faye."

He sits on the sled, trying to balance the tablet on his knees. Faye pushes herself up, takes the solar panel from him and tilts it to catch the light.

"I'm sorry," she says, unable to look at him. "I'm so sorry. I've got us both killed."

"And I almost got us blown up in a thermonuclear explosion. I think we're even."

She laughs without humour. The tablet blinks to life. He tugs his mitten off with his teeth, rubs some life back into his fingers. And even though his hand must be half-frozen and the tablet screen is cracked, he pulls up a satellite image. In a few swipes, he's honed in on their GPS co-ordinates. He works in silence, swiping and dragging, until finally she hears a sharp intake of breath. "This it?"

She peers over his shoulder. "I'm not sure."

"It _has_ to be."

"How far?" she asks. He doesn't answer straight away and she thinks: _too far._ "Simon?"

"Maybe 120 miles," he says finally, and Faye's shoulders slump.

 _We haven't got a prayer_. "No," she says, shaking her head. "No, absolutely not. It's too far. We can't..."

He sets the tablet down and stands up, taking hold of her shoulders. "I don't think we have a choice, Faye. I... I don't want to go back. If you do then... okay, maybe, but if there's the slightest chance we can make it, then I think we should go on." She starts to shake her head and he moves closer, cupping her cheeks. "Is there a chance, Faye?"

She closes her eyes, presses her lips tight together. _I'm going to get us both killed._ "Maybe," she whispers. "It's a long way, but... Yes, there's a chance we could make it. A very slim chance."

He smiles, a stupid brave smile that fills her with a jumbled rush of exasperation and affection. "Then I think we should do it."

She exhales. "You mad bastard." She glances out at the bay, wondering where the boat is now, trying to remember how much fuel was left on board. It feels like a lifetime ago. "Okay," she says. "Let's fucking do this."

He kisses her forehead. "That's my girl."

* * *

But now, with the disappointment of the missing boat, it's harder going. They haul the sleds over the rubble in silence, no longer taking the time to stop and watch the lights or trying to contact Operation Bitemark, because they don't have time.

The sky has been threatening bad weather all day, and the storm descends quickly. They unknot the ropes with raw, numb fingers, scrambling to set up camp before the wind whips everything away. Crawl into the tent, shivering with the cold, wincing at the agony in their hands as they warm through. The stabbing pain of pins and needles.

And in the dark of a tent that smells of sweat and ripe, wet husky, he asks her what happened to the boat. His voice is gentle, but insistent, and she knows she can't keep her secret any longer. She has to tell him. He deserves to know. And even so, she is silent for a long time before she can bring herself to speak.

"I don't know. But I think... I think maybe Lars took it," she whispers, and even though she's suspected it was true for a while, saying the words makes it real. Even if it isn't true; even if it's just her terror talking.

"I thought he was dead."

"Yeah, well... So did I." Her voice breaks. She buries her face in his neck, feels his hair brush her forehead. She has to tell him. It fills her with a dizzying vertiginous terror, but she doesn't have any choice. Not when she's brought him out here to die. Still she waits until he asks, because at heart she's still a coward.

He shifts against her. "It's okay," he tells her. "Whatever happened it's okay. No matter what." And she wonders how much he's already guessed, because he might be a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them.

"I killed him." And then, in the ensuing silence, she continues, "Or rather, I thought I did." _Couldn't even get that right._

Beside her, he's still, his arms tight around her. "Did he..." He breaks off.

He can't even bring himself to say the words. Frustration makes her voice harder than she would have liked. She almost sounds cruel. "You mean did he rape me?"

He twists to look at her. His mouth is a flat hard line. There's rage in his eyes, and it takes her aback; in the long months she's known him he's never seen him look like this. Sadness, vulnerability, bitterness, even frustration, but never anger. "Because if he did, I'll find him and I'll fucking kill him."

"It wasn't like that," she says, although she's uncertain whether that is true. She hasn't had the guts to unpick the fear and confusion and pain of those days, to unknot the tangled strands to figure out what happened, exactly what Lars had done to her. "It's not what you think."

"Then what?"

She hesitates, then she tells him about the night on the beach, the embers of a shared cigarette beneath the lights of the Aurora Borealis. And how it had just happened, the kiss, the crushing pressure, the unexpected pain of Lars inside her. Even now she doesn't know if she would have done anything differently if she had the choice again. Because helpless as she was, no matter how much that sensation of no longer being the master of her body terrified her, there was still comfort in it. It was like the numbing haze of an alcohol-stupor; for a while it took the pain away.

So she'd surrendered, and made a choice that was no choice at all, and found herself trapped like a rat in a maze. Because no matter how many twists and turns she took it all ended the same way: Lars's weight in her bunk, slowly crushing her.

"I _am_ gonna fucking kill him," Simon says. His voice is filled with a cold, suppressed rage so intense it frightens her.

"No, you won't," she murmurs. "You're not a killer, Simon."

"The apocalypse changes people."

"Even so."

Outside the tent, the wind is starting to drop. Faye hopes it lasts. If they can't get moving soon, their slim chances of making it to the research centre plummet to zero.

"Oh, Faye." Simon brushes her hair back. "I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head. "Don't be. It's... just something that happened." Or so she keeps telling herself. When she closes her eyes, she's back on the boat, the sloping walls pressing in on her. Her face pressed into the pillow, teeth at her neck. "He'd lost too much," she says, and then she can't help it. She's crying and Simon is pulling her close, kissing tears from her cheeks.

"It's okay," he says. "Don't."

But she has to. Now that she's started she can't stop. The words spill out, as if a dam has burst inside her. She tells him about the burnt-out remains of the abandoned Inuit settlement on the southern edge of the island. How they'd stopped to check for supplies.

"There was a zombie there," she says. "Slow, half-frozen. It wasn't any kind of threat. He kept hitting it with the ice-axe, long after it was dead. Over and over again, until it was a matted clump of gore." She draws in a shuddering breath. "I can't even remember what I did. Maybe I tried to touch his shoulder... Maybe just said his name, but he swung on me with the axe, and–" She breaks off, swallowing hard. Simon stares at her, his face white.

She lifts her fringe, shows him the scar at her hairline. He traces it with trembling fingers. "I got lucky. If I'd been standing a few inches to the right, I'd be dead. As it was, I was half out of my mind. I could barely see from the amount of blood streaming down my face, and he was still standing over me with the axe. He didn't look human. He was splattered with blood and fragments of fucking skull and I knew he was going to kill me. Maybe not then, but soon. I found the rifle, and–" She squeezes her eyes shut, because she can't bear the way he's looking at her. "I thought I'd killed him. Only I knew I hadn't hit him in the head, so–"

"That's enough, Faye. No more."

"–So he was going to turn. And I ran. I didn't stop to finish him, didn't even stop to check if he was actually dead. I just ran. Dragged the dinghy into the water, looked back, and he was staggering across the beach. I couldn't hear anything. My ears were ringing from the rifle blast, and I thought he was dead. So..." She trails off, gives a shaky laugh. "Now you know."

"Now I know." He sounds numb.

"I bet you wish you'd never asked."

"No." He strokes her hair. "I wish there was something I could've done to _help_."

"This is the world now. But _plus ça change._ It's always been the world for a lot of people, going back longer than the zombie apocalypse."

"Yeah." He sighs. "This damn world. Sometimes I wonder if we shouldn't just leave it to the Zs."

She nestles into him. Now that it's out, she feels stronger. Safer. "No, you don't."

"You're right. I don't. I hope we can do it better though. If we do get a second chance. Because if not... Shit. Faye, I'm sorry you had to go through that. I can't even imagine–"

"Hey." She rolls over, meets his eyes. "Listen to me, Simon, and really, I _mean_ this. It could have been a lot worse. Compared to the Zs back at Northern Light, that moment when I looked down into the hole and thought you were dead? No contest. So let's not turn it into some hideous trauma, because that's not helping."

"Okay," he says, his voice soothing. "But just so's you know, I am going to kill him."

"Yeah, you said that already."

"I _am_."

She kisses him, and when, for a few moments, he holds back she feels a rush of fear, because what if this has irrevocably changed things between them? And then the moment passes and he's kissing her back, delicate butterfly kisses that make her shiver with pleasure.

In the tight confines of the sleeping bag she can feel how much he wants her, only...

She breaks away with a groan. "We can't."

He looks stricken. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean–"

"It's not that. Bloody hell, Simon." She sighs, hoping he isn't planning on treating her like a fragile china doll for the rest of her life. "The storm's dropping. We should be able to get moving again tomorrow. Need to conserve our energy."

"Right."

"If it wasn't for that..."

"I know." He wriggles onto his side, his back to her. She spoons against him, her arm wrapped around his chest. Beneath her fingertips, she feels the hollow indentations of his ribs. It frightens her how thin he is, how little protection he has against the biting cold. Panic surges up through her system, making her heart jerk like a marionette on a string. Because what if he dies because of her?

She presses her face between his shoulder blades, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back tears. He takes hold of her hand, and she wonders if he can feel her tears wet against his back. "We're gonna be okay," he says, and she guesses he can't, because there's a new confidence in his voice. "You know that, right?"

"Hell yeah," she says, and she can't keep a trace of his accent from creeping into her voice. "You, me and the dog."

Even though he still sounds sad, humour has already started to creep back into his voice. "You know you just said 'dawg', right?"

"No, I didn't."

"You totally did." He chuckles. "I love it when you talk American. It's adorable."

"'Adorable'?" She smiles through her tears. "Simon, I'm a 32-year old woman. I practically have a doctorate. I have a mortgage. I am _not_ adorable." She pokes him. " _You're_ adorable."

"Hear that, dog? She says I'm adorable."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I say adorable? I meant 'aggravating.' Now get some sodding sleep."

"Yes, ma'am." His hand finds hers. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," she whispers. "I really am."

Faye closes her eyes, listens as the wind drops. Outside everything is eerie and still. All she can hear are the sounds inside the tent, Simon's steady breathing and the rumbling of the husky,. The drumming of a loose guy line against the nylon tent. That should be all, but there's something else – something she knows she's imagining, but which catches at the edge of her hearing anyway. It fills her with dread

She fights the urge to look up, to check the far end of the tent, where the shadows lurk. There's something there, a shape crouched in the gloom. It watches them with angry, hateful eyes.

 _There's nothing there._

She closes her eyes, but the hollow, desolate mantra echoes in her head, deadening any hope she might have had.

 _We're going to die out here._


	26. White-Out

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

 **White-Out**

Simon no longer fights with Faye about taking it in turns with the heavier wooden sled. Every time it's his turn, the weight of dull exhaustion presses down on his complaining body. It feels like a giant hand descending from the sky to crush him into the snow. He suspects Faye is starting to stretch out her turns, pushing on ahead and pretending not to realise it's time to change over. And because he can't bear the thought of swapping from the lighter pulk to the agonising weight of the wooden sled, sometimes he lets her. He hates himself for this.

At first they're lucky with the the weather, but after they've made their way through a labyrinth of ice-blocks, a white-out blots out the sun. They keep moving, because they have no choice, but without shadows to give perspective, it's hard to see obstacles and dangers ahead. Once Simon almost stumbled into a crevice, his leg sinking up to the knee before he managed to pull himself free. He was lucky not to shatter his ankle.

And the cold, the constant, all-pervading cold. When Faye helps him off with his gloves at night, the ends of his fingers are black, the skin cracking. Outside his fingers are constantly numb, but in the relative warmth of the tent, the pain is agonising. Worse is the fear of frostbite; the thought that he might actually lose part of his fingers terrifies him.

And now the sled has overturned again. He swears and hurries forward to help Faye right it. They heave it over, the muscles in his shoulders screaming in protest, and he sinks back, wondering what the hell he thinks he's doing. At that moment he would have done anything to be back at Camp Northern Light again, grilling steak and playing music and watching the world end. Even if it means being alone.

When Faye holds her hand out to him, in the depths of his exhaustion he almost doesn't know who she is. With the ski-mask she's faceless. She could be anyone. Maybe Faye is gone, and this person is a stranger...

But that is madness speaking, so he takes her hand and lets her help him up.

"Time to swap," he says, his voice muffled by the ski mask. For a moment, it looks like she's going to argue, and then she relents. Simon's heart sinks as he takes over the straps of the dog sled, and they begin the journey again.

The truth is that even when Camp Northern Light was warm, it was never safe. Would he have made it through the winter without Faye? Maybe. But he's pretty sure that he wouldn't have survived another year, even with her at his side. Another three months of darkness, and he would have snapped, gone Jack Torrance on himself. And maybe not just himself.

He has a sudden horrible image of Faye's crumpled, broken body, a splatter-spray of blood arcing across the pristine snow. The gun in his hands.

"Fuck."

He bends double, jerks the ski mask up. It sticks to his stubble like Velcro, but he tears it away just in time to vomit into the snow. His puke is streaked with the last of the frozen chocolate they crunched through the night before. He retches again, spits sour-tasting bile onto the snow. Faye catches up with him, her hand on his back. He tries not to flinch at her touch.

"Are you okay?"

He straightens up, wiping his mouth. "Yeah, just need to rest." He's already sinking down, leaning against the sled.

"Okay," Faye says. She tries to sound calm, but he can hear the strain in her voice, the worry. She kneels beside him, her hand on his knee. "We can do that."

 _I'm not sure I can do this much longer,_ he thinks. He's not built for this. He's too thin, too fucking weak. His back and shoulders are an amorphous mass of aching pain, and every other part of him is numb.

He's never been so tired in his life, but still even so, he looks at Faye and he knows he wouldn't change a thing.

He knows he's not going to make it, but he's damned if he's going to give up. He'll get Faye as far as he can.

He's shivering when Faye cups his cheek. She still has her mittens on and he longs to feel her skin against his. Instead, she tugs his ski mask back down.

"We have to keep moving, Simon," she tells him.

He wants to beg her for just a little longer, but he knows she's right. The longer he sits here, the more tired he gets and the deeper the cold sinks into his bones. In his exhaustion it takes him a few moments to realises she's slipping the straps off his shoulders. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to take the sled for a bit longer."

He backs away from her, shaking his head in a sudden fury. "The hell you are!"

"Simon–"

"No! I'm not fucking useless."

"I didn't say you were. But–" She breaks off. He's pretty sure he knows what she was going to say: _I'm stronger than you._

"It's my turn," he says, fighting to keep his voice calm.

She hesitates, then holds up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Beneath his mask tears are freezing on his cheeks. Faye is about to move away, then she comes closer instead, and pulls him down so that she can press her masked forehead against his. She doesn't say anything. He's not sure there's anything left to say. As she steps back, he rolls his shoulders, wincing at the shaft of pain that darts up from his stinging skin where the straps have chafed.

And they get moving.

When they reach a downhill patch, it's almost a relief. The wooden sled isn't so much of a load, and he feels the exhaustion start to recede. Maybe he can do this.

But behind him the sled starts to pick up speed, and with the white-out he doesn't see the shadow of the crevasse until it's too late. And the sled is sliding past him, pulling him off balance. He digs his heels in, but there's nothing he can do. The straps have him gripped tight, and the sled has too much momentum now; there's no way he can stop it.

Behind him, Faye is screaming at him to let go. But if he does they've lost everything. Then he's almost wrenched off his feet and he knows that if he doesn't get the straps off he'll die. He tears his mittens off with his teeth, scrabbles at the straps with numbed, useless fingers. They're pulled so tight around his shoulders he can't hook his fingers underneath.

The sled's left runner slides out over the edge of the crevasse. In that frozen moment, he sees a scatter of sparkling ice crystals flung over the edge. His breath freezes inside his mask. The sled teeters on the brink.

In a blind panic, he digs his fingers under the straps. Agony arches up through his hands, along his wrists. The pain is blinding; it nearly blots out the world. And the sled starts to fall. As he's torn off his feet, he twists free, but it's too late; he can't stop himself. He rolls in the snow, tumbling helplessly towards the drop.

He scrabbles at the snow, searching for purchase, for some way to stop himself. He hears the crash of the sled from inside the chasm, Faye's muffled screams. His own frantic breath.

And then Faye's there, grabbing at him. But it's too late, and now the two of them are sliding towards the crevasse.

He swings out over the edge, sees the shining walls of ice stretching down. And they stop.

The two of them lie frozen for a long moment. He's dangling over the edge, , with Faye's arm flung around him. Another inch or so and he would have plunged to his death and taken her with him. His hands press into the snow, totally numb. He squeezes his eyes shut, because he can't bear to look at the gleaming ice.

 _I'm alive,_ he thinks. _We're alive._

And then he opens his eyes again, sees the sled wedged in the chasm. Most of their food, all the weapons aside from his handgun and Faye's rifle. And _all_ of the diesel.

It's only fifty feet down, but it might as well be on the fucking moon.


	27. A Place of Safety

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

 **A Place of Safety**

"It doesn't matter," Faye tells him as they edge away from the edge of the crevasse. His shoulders are shaking. "It's not like it would have done us any good without a boat."

"How much rope have we got?" he's saying, staring down at the sled. "Could we–"

"No." The wind is picking up, driving snow into their goggles. "We have to go," Faye says. "We're not far now."

"But–"

"I don't think the weather is going to hold. There's a storm coming. If we don't get moving, we're dead." She hadn't meant for her voice to sound so empty. He stares at her, his expression invisible underneath the skimask. But she's pretty sure she can take a stab at it; the press of misery around his mouth, the shining pain in his eyes.

It's not his fault. It's _her_ fault, for letting him continue with the heavier sled when she could see how exhausted he was. Although she's not sure it would have made any difference; she's a bit stronger than him, but not by that much. They might have lost the sled anyway. She'd known she'd overloaded it. Stupid. If she'd only left behind some of the cannisters...

"Let me take the pulk,"he says.

"No." And this time there's no arguing with her. "I'm good for the moment."

They keep moving. Even though the wind is picking up, sending stinging snow crystals swirling into their faces to prick at any patch of exposed skin. Even though they are covered in hoarfrost and the sweat is frozen around their necks. Without the wooden sled they make better time, and when Simon takes over the pulk, he looks stronger as he tightens the straps around his shoulders.

The wind whistles through the valley, and the weight of the steep slopes threaten to press in on them. Faye feels the needle sharp sensation of something watching her, the instinct of prey knowing it is being hunted. _You're imagining it,_ she tells herself, although she doesn't think she is. "Let's go," she says. "I don't feel safe here."

And they keep moving, pressing on until it's almost dark and they find a flat patch of ice on which to camp. They are almost out of food – they lost most of the MREs with the sled – so they split one between the three of them, then crawl into the sleeping bag in silence. They lie awake, listening to the howling wind outside. Neither of them can sleep for a long time, and when Faye finally slips off she wakes in the darkness to the husky's growls.

Certain it's a bear, she claws the useless rifle closer and listens to the silence outside. She doesn't have the strength or the energy to wriggle out of the sleeping bag and investigate.

Beside her, Simon stirs. "What is it?" he asks. The husky has stopped growling.

"I'm not sure," she whispers. Outside everything is still. She can't hear a fucking thing. "Maybe nothing." He holds her close, and they both lie awake until dawn.

In the morning, when they climb out through the flap, they see paw prints in the snow all around the tent. Wolves. She shivers, wonders whether they were alive or dead.

They barely talk now, even at night in the tent. They are both dog-tired, weary to the bone, half-starved and growing weaker every day. Their movements are stiff and mechanical as they climb, boots breaking through the crust of ice to the rocks below.

But they are close, and when they finally reach the top of the ridge and see the dome of the research centre below, they slump against one another. It's all they can manage; they're too exhausted and weak to celebrate. Faye wants to sink down into the snow and weep.

When Simon takes her hand and says, "We did it," she has to bite back the urge to say, "We're not there yet."

They make the last of the journey in a stumbling rush. If they don't get there soon their energy resources will be exhausted and they'll collapse in the snow to die. They drag each other on, blinded by the snow that whips into their eyes. For a while they lose sight of the dome completely, and then it looms out of the blizzard like a ship in the mist.

Faye sobs into her mask, and throws herself through the door into the gloom of a building that smells of damp and decay. She rips off the straps of the pulk, and they sink to the floor and rest. She leans against him, her head on his shoulder, tears wet on her cheeks.

* * *

It's the howling of the wind that wakes her. She's shivering, pressed against the cold door. Even then it's a long time before she can force her aching body to move. "Come on," she says to Simon. She doesn't know how long they've been sitting there. It could have been little more than minutes; it could have been as much as hours. It's darker now, and there's a chill to the air.

They limp through the silent corridors, the dog padding at their heels. They move through a room, with a large table and benches for eating, a battered sofa draped with a hand stitched throw. A TV screen shattered into splinters of glass that crunch underfoot. She eyes the sofa, shivering. The temptation to sink down onto it and sleep is overwhelming, but there's a silence to this place that she doesn't like. Now that she's here she can't shake the feeling that they are being watched.

"What happened here?" Simon wonders, staring at the television. She shrugs, too tired to answer. "Do you think anyone's left? Where do you think they went?"

And then in another room they find seven frozen bodies. They draw back, but they've all been piked. Faye takes his arm and they leave, closing the door behind them.

"I don't think there's anything here," she says, leaning against him. He puts his arm around her back.

"Let's get some rest. The couch?"

She shakes her head, shuddering. "It's too open. Too exposed. There's got to be beds somewhere."

Eventually they find one, a small empty cell with nothing but a single bed. They exchange a look and strip, then sink beneath the musty-smelling covers. They know one of them should keep watch, but they're both too exhausted to do anything other than cling together and fall asleep.

And Faye wakes from feverish dreams, turns her head to see a polar bear looming in the corner of the room. She cries out, rolling over to wake Simon, only he isn't there. Even the dog is gone, and the room is silent except for the sound of her panicked, frightened breathing.

She is alone.


	28. Do Better

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

 **Do Better**

There are tracks in the snow. Simon hunkers down, frowning, wondering if he or Faye could have made them. But these tracks are fresh. And human. His hand tightens around the handle of the baseball bat.

 _Z?_ he wonders. _Or..._

He's not sure which possibility scares him more. He'd never expected to get to the point where facing off against a Z would feel like no big deal. But a person? An actual living person? He thinks about the story Faye told him, and the hard little ball of anger he's been nurturing blossoms and spreads through his body, until he's shaking with cold fury. If these tracks belong to Lars, if the bastard is still alive...

He can't kill a person, can he?

"Yeah," he mutters. "Him I can kill." He can still hear the pain in Faye's subdued voice, how she tried to play it down, like it was nothing, no big deal, and he wonders who she was really lying to.

He wants it to be Lars. He actually wants to kill a human being, but more than that, he wants to make him suffer. For what he did to Faye.

For what Simon almost did to Faye, that awful Christmas.

 _It's a Z_ , he thinks, closing his eyes. _Please God let it be a Z._ He can deal with that, unbelievable though it sounds. He's not sure he can deal with being a murderer.

He follows the tracks, his own boots sinking into the crust of snow. His breath frosts in the air. Shit, it's cold. A bitter wind is sweeping in from the north, bringing with it gritty snow crystals that strike his cheeks like needles. With every step there's a strange echo, as if something is following him, stopping when he stops. It's creepy, but it's just an echo. Or so he tells himself.

The tracks in the snow stop dead, as if whoever made them materialised out of nowhere. He stares at them, shivering in his parka. There's only one way that could have happened: whoever made these prints trod backwards, stepping in his own footsteps like the kid in The Shining.

 _Um. Those prints look_ really _fresh._

He hears it behind him, the crunch of boots in snow, and he spins around. Not fast enough. The snow shovel slams into his face, knocking him sprawling on the snow. Pain blinds him, and when he opens his eyes he sees the snow shovel swinging down towards him. He rolls, but too slowly, and it slams into his shoulder blades, knocking him flat again. Inside his chest, something cracks.

A boot hooks underneath his chest, tipping him over onto his back. He stares up at the sight of an upright polar bear, gripping a shovel.

 _Wait, what?_

He blinks, and his vision clears. Not a polar bear at all but a man in a light coloured parka. He's a wreck, jaundiced and gaunt, and he's barely recognisable from the man in the video, but it's Lars. In silence, he bends to strip off Simon's parka. When he starts on his undergarments, panic flares in Simon's chest. He draws in a painful breath, manages a croaked, "Lars?"

The man stops. He strips his lips back from his teeth like an animal, revealing swollen, bloody gums. Missing teeth. "Do you know how long it takes to freeze to death out here?" he asks. His accented voice is cultured and intelligent. Friendly even. "With this wind coming from the north, not long. Not long at all." He pats Simon's shoulder. "I'm doing you a favour, my friend. There are worse ways to die."

And he jerks Simon's longjohns off, smiling tolerantly, as if Simon is drunk and he's putting him to bed. Simon's already shaking. "Wait," he manages through his chattering teeth. So much for him murdering this man. "Please." He tries to get up, wincing as a pain spasms through his ribs. _Going to pierce a lung,_ he thinks. _What has he done to me?_

Lars straightens up, watching as Simon rolls onto his hands and knees, coughing at the agony in his chest.

 _You can get up,_ he tells himself. Pressed into the snow, his hands are numb. _Just need to–_

Lars kicks him in the side, knocking him back. He rolls into a ball, gasping, trying to protect himself from the man's boots.

"Stop!" It's Faye's voice, high and filled with panic. The blows stop. Simon squeezes his eyes shut, weeping into the crook of his arm at the pain. He uncurls, every inch of his body screaming in process.

Lars has turned to face her, still smiling. She's aiming the gun, her face filled with fear and rage. She's not wearing her parka and Simon wants to cry at how vulnerable and frightened she looks. So much for him protecting her. _But she has the gun_ , he thinks. At least there's that.

And then he remembers: they have no bullets left.

"Leave him alone."

Lars chuckles. "You won't kill me, Faye."

"I will. Simon, get out of the fucking snow."

Lars glances down at Simon. "She won't shoot me, will she, friend? No. Because if she was going to shoot me, she would have done it already." Without warning he kicks Simon in the chest again, and something else snaps inside him. Faye screams, raising the gun, but she doesn't fire, and Lars laughs. "You see?" he says, and his voice still has that friendly conversational tone. "But I bet if she had some bullets left she would have shot me. Am I right, Faye? Are you out of bullets?" To Simon, he says, "You have to watch this one. She can be a bitch when she's angry. She tried to kill me?"

His teeth chatter so hard he can barely get the words out. "After what you did to her, I'll kill you myself."

And the first hint of rage flicks over Lars's face. He raises the snow shovel, eyes dark. Empty as a Z's.

"No!" Faye screams. "Please, Lars! Don't." She edges closer, turns the muzzle of the gun up towards the sky. "You're right," she says. "I'm out of bullets. Please don't hurt him. We have fuel, Lars. Diesel. Cans and cans of it. We can get on the boat. You took it didn't you? You and me, just let him get up and go inside and we can talk. _Please."_

"What is this boy to you?"

"Nothing, he's... nothing. But he's still a human being and there aren't enough left of those in the world."

"And you can't trust any of them."

"Please... just.. just let him get up." And she's crying now. "Get up, Simon!"

He tries, despite the agonising pain in his chest. He's on his knees when Lars swings around and kicks him in the gut again. Simon doubles up, retching on the snow.

"You always were a liar, Faye." Lars sounds almost sad now.

"Fuck you." And then she's storming past him, dropping to her knees at Simon's side. Her hands feel so hot they're almost burning, and her touch sets off a fireworks display of agony in his chest. "Get out of the snow, Simon."

He coughs. "Don't... think I can."

"Don't be a fuckwit, Cruller. Of course you can–"

Lars grabs her hair, twisting it around his wrist. He drags her up, wrapping his other arm around her neck in a choke hold. Simon sees the panic flare across her face.

 _He's going to kill her,_ he thinks. Lars is still talking in his friendly voice, smiling as if they're all friends. "We're going to watch him turn, Faye. You and I. And then you can finish him." And all the while she's clawing at his arm in paroxysms of terror.

 _Get up,_ Simon tells himself. _Help her._ But he seems to have lost control of his body. He can't make himself move.

Faye meets his eyes. There's nothing but misery and loss in her face. _Love you,_ he thinks and even his thoughts feel distant now. But maybe she hears him anyway because her expression changes. She jerks her hunting knife from the belt of her combats, stabs it backwards into Lars's thigh. He roars, flinging her away. His face contorts with rage, and he punches her. _Hard_. Her head snaps to the side.

"You bastard," Simon whispers. "I'm gonna–" Lars is dragging Faye away towards the dome, and Simon redoubles his efforts to stand. _Get up,_ he thinks. _Get up, you useless–_

He manages to roll onto his side, gasping at the pain. At the tightness of his chest. With every shiver, with every breath he takes, a pulsing agony envelopes his entire body. Apart from the parts of him that are blissfully numb. If he only rests, lets the cold take him, he won't be in pain any more.

 _No._

He plants his hands in the snow, tries to push himself up onto his knees. Something flares in his chest, a screaming agony that's worse than anything he's felt in his life, and he knows he's going to die, that he can't do this.

He blacks out.

Something on his face is burning. He coughs, winces at the stabbing pain. There's an irritating noise, like a swarm of bees, and still that burning sensation, scorching his skin. _Stayed out in the sun too long,_ he thinks. _Should have used more sunscreen._

He's on the beach in Mexico, lying back on the sun lounger. Watching Faye wade through the turquoise water, waves foaming around her ankles. Wait, when did he take her to Mexico? He can't think, can't concentrate because of the noise. That damn whining sound.

It's the dog. Licking his face. Whining.

"Not now, dude." He rolls onto his side. "Jus' let me sleep." He wants to concentrate on Faye. Wants to see her in her swimming costume, her pale Irish skin with just the faintest hint of a tan from the sun. Freckles spreading up her arms, scattered on her shoulders like a constellation of stars. She's coming towards him, smiling, her hair wet from the sea. And she's sinking down on the sun lounger, reaching out to stroke his cheek.

When did they escape from the Arctic?

 _We didn't,_ she whispers. Her touch is cold. Icy. _We're still here._ _You're dying, Simon._

He opens his eyes, thinks he's gone blind. He can see nothing but whiteness and he wonders if he has turned already, if this is all that the Zs can see. Are they conscious? he wonders. Are the souls of the dead locked inside their rotting bodies, unable to stop themselves from killing their loved ones, watching themselves shamble around on the surface of the Earth until they fall down to finish decomposing? Will he freeze in this position for eternity, aware, and unable to do a damn thing?

The dog whines again, licks his face. He's too warm. He's burning up. With a groan, he sets his numbed hands against the snow and rolls onto his back. His fingers are waxy white.

That's all he can manage.

He's nothing. He's no one. And then he thinks about Faye, the night in the tent when she told him she loved him. Her hair spilling over his chest like liquid gold. Burning. Shit, he's burning up. The dog is licking him again, and he lifts a weak arm, pushes it away.

"Leave me alone," he says. Only he isn't sure if he actually speaks or if he just thinks it. _Let me die._

Only if he dies he'll turn. He'll become nothing but a hungry, empty shell. He can't let that happen, because he'll leave Faye alone with the monster. But he can't move either because of the lethargy spreading through his body. _I'll just wait here for a bit,_ he thinks. _Until I feel stronger._

"You swore you'd protect her." It's not his voice. It's Yuri's, heavily accented in the Russian accent that isn't. _Wessel off the starboard bow,_ Simon thinks and laughs, winces at the spasm of pain in his ribs. "Swore you'd never let anything happen to her." He opens his eyes. Yuri is standing over him, the dog at his side.

"You have to do better, Simon."

No, not Yuri. Yuri doesn't exist. It's Matty; it was always Matty. Still protecting him even now.

"You're not real," Simon says. "You're not really there. I know your secret now."

Matty's eyes are dark. "Get up, Simon." The Russian accent is gone. Now it's pure Tennessee, stronger and richer and deeper than Simon's own. "You gotta do better. She needs you."

"Faye."

"Yeah, Faye. You're a lucky bastard, you know that? You just gonna let her die?"

"No. But I can't get up." _Too tired. Just let me sleep._

"Yeah, you can. You gotta do better, Simon."

He snaps his eyes open. Yuri or Matty or whoever the hell he is has gone. It's just Simon and the dog.

 _Do better._

Where Matty was standing something is glinting in the snow. It's the shovel. Simon reaches for it, uses it to lever himself up, ignoring the flaring pain in his chest, the feeling of nausea rising up from his hollow belly. And Christ, he needs a piss so badly.

Shivering, he limps towards the dome.


	29. Frozen

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

 **Frozen**

Lars drags her to the TV room, broken glass crunching beneath their boots. He shoves her onto a seat at the table, slaps her when she tries to stand. He points a finger at her, trembling, the knife in his hand. "Don't move."

He watches her from the corner of his eye as he retrieves a first aid kit and a bottle of vodka from a cupboard. He pours them both a glass, sets hers in front of her. She stares at it, and when he tells her to drink she swallows it back. It burns as it slides down her throat. She almost vomits it back up as she remembers Simon, pale and helpless and virtually naked in the snow.

The wound in Lars's leg is raw and ragged, but she must have missed the artery. The bleeding is slowing down already.

"It won't heal," she says. "When was the last time you ate fresh food? Meat?"

"There is no meat. Everything turns."

"Please." Her voice is numb. "Let me go back for him. Please don't let him die. You're not a killer, Lars."

"You don't know anything about me." He takes a swig straight from the bottle.

"I know you're a good man. I know this isn't you. Just let me bring him inside."

"He's dead already."

"Just let me _check._ " She flinches as he comes towards her.

"What is he to you?" His tone is conversational again, but rage and hatred burn in his eyes. He pours her another glass of vodka, pushes it towards her. She doesn't want to drink it.

"I told you–"

"You're a liar, Faye." He picks up the glass and presses it into her hand. She stares down at the viscous liquid. She's sitting in here drinking vodka while outside Simon's dying. She closes her eyes, knocks it back. "Where did you find him?"

"Camp Northern Light. The NSA listening post."

"Ah." He sucks in a breath, smiling. She glances at the ruin of his teeth, his swollen gums,and she shudders. "I thought his voice sounded familiar. So you found him, Faye. Citizen Z. That crazy bastard."

And she can't stop herself; she laughs. Presses her hands against her face, her body wrenched by sobs. She drops her hands, her face a smeared mess of tears and snot and blood from her shattered nose. Lars presses more vodka into her hand. "I don't want it."

"Drink," he says. And she does. He pours her more. "Was it a tomb?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact it was." She drinks the vodka, heaves in a shuddering breath. "I'm going to get up now, Lars. I'm going to go outside and you are not going to stop me."

He shakes his head. "Don't do that, Faye."

"You're not a killer. I know you're not. You're sick, Lars. You're not yourself." And, trembling, she stands up. She feels sick, dizzy from so much vodka on an empty stomach. She takes a step towards the door. And another.

"If he's dead, will you be able to finish him?" Lars's voice is soft.

She takes another step, wants to weep in dismay as he moves between her and the door.

"Let me go."

He shakes his head. As she shoves past him he grabs her, and when she tries to jerk free he slams her into the wall, so hard she almost blacks out. With his hand against the scruff of her neck, he uses his weight to pin her against the wall. And still, still, his voice is soft. Apologetic. "You're a coward, Faye."

"Takes one to know one," she hisses. "Remember that night on the beach? The night you raped me? You practically begged me to lie to you afterwards."

His grip on her neck tightens. "Not how I remember it."

She's going to die. He's going to kill her and she doesn't care any more. "No, well it wouldn't be. You're even better at lying to yourself than I am."

He spins her around, his hand closing around her throat. Not quite tightening yet. She can still breathe. She closes her eyes, wondering if Simon is dead yet. "That's not how it happened."

"If you're going to kill me, just fucking do it," she spits. "I hope I rip your throat out when I turn."

He stares at her in disbelief. His hands drop to his sides. "I wasn't going to kill you."

She rubs her throat, shooting him a look of venom. "No?"

"Faye..." He trails off as she goes for the door. As she passes him she sees his face change. His expression darkens, twists into something less than human. "If I was, it's your fault."

She darts for the door, but barely has time to twist the handle before he grabs her again. "Let me–" She doubles up as he punches her in the gut. Wrenches her head back, his hand tangled in her hair.

"Did you forget you tried to kill me?" His breath is hot on her ear. Spittle on her neck. She can smell the rot in him. "You left me to die, you fucking bitch."

He throws her onto the sofa, and before she can get up, he's on her, his hands around her throat. She struggles and fights and kicks, but he's stronger than she is, and she's so tired. Simon is dead and she just wants to let go. She can't do it any more. She can't keep fighting.

But she finds it's not as bad as she feared, not being able to breathe. After a little while it's like she's floating, drifting. Going to sleep. And she turns and buries her head in Simon's neck. His hand brushes over her hair, and she looks at him and smiles.

Above her Lars jolts. His hands slip from her throat, and she sucks in air. She can hear something, a snarling, and she turns her head, sees the husky savaging his leg.

 _Good dog_.

Lars rears around and kicks it hard. The dog yelps, tumbles over, and Faye bares her teeth. She throws herself forward, digs her nails into the wound in his thigh, ripping and clawing. He howls, slaps her with a backhand blow. Knocks her back on the sofa, and then the knife is in his hand and he's bringing it down. She's going to die.

Over his shoulder, she sees Simon. So white that at first she thinks he's already dead. Until she sees the snow shovel clutched in his white-knuckled fists.

With a loud clang, the shovel collides with Lars's skull. He crumples on top of her, and the knife slices into the meat of her arm. She cries out, crushed beneath his weight. Scrabbles at him, trying to shove him away from her. Lars groans and Simon swings the shovel down again, hacking into his neck. He makes a choking sound, and when Simon jerks the shovel free, blood spurts over Faye's lap. It's hot, thick; he's bleeding out.

Simon stares at her. Drops the shovel. And then he drops too, crumpling to the ground, the last of his energy gone.

She presses her foot against Lars's chest, levering him away from her. He rolls onto the ground, clawing at his throat. He makes a sound, a last gurgling breath and then he stops moving.

He's going to turn.

 _The knife,_ she thinks. _The fucking knife._

But she can't see it, and he's turned already, is dragging himself towards Simon, a trail of blood in his wake. The dog snarls, poised to spring, and Faye sees the knife, caught beneath Lars's body.

She screams in fury, throws herself onto Lars's back, her hand closing around the hilt. And for a moment she can't get it. Then she jerks it free, grips his hair. He bucks beneath her, and she thinks for a moment that he's too strong, that she can't do this. He twists his head around, snapping his teeth at her upper arm, and with her last scrap of strength she stabs the knife into his temple. Hacks and twists until she feels it strike home. Until she feels his body slump underneath her.

She's gasping, sobbing. Her arm burns. She lets go of his hair, lets his forehead thunk onto the ground.

"Not such a fucking coward after all."

She draws in a shaky, shuddery breath and bursts into tears, falling back against the sofa. The dog is whining, licking at Simon's face, and in her haze of exhaustion and fear and tears she can only watch. There's something she needs to do, but she's not thinking straight. She can't remember what it is.

And then she sees Simon, how pale and waxy his face is. He's almost blue and he's not shivering any more.

"Oh _fuck_."

She scrambles up, panic flooding through her. She tugs off his wet undergarments, drags him to the sofa. Lars's parka is filthy, but it's warm, so she tugs it off his Lars's corpse and drapes it over Simon. Then she strips naked and slips underneath, careful not to put pressure on his ribs.

He's so cold, he might be dead already, and she presses her face into the hollow of his neck. It could already be too late, but she's too exhausted to do anything more than wrap her body around his and hope. If he turns, he turns; let him bite her. Let him turn her.

She can't go on without him.

And when he stirs against her, she thinks it's over. He lets out a wheezing rattling breath, and she waits to feel his teeth sink into her flesh.

And then he speaks. His voice is weak, but he's alive. He's _alive._

"Faye..."

"Oh, thank _God_." She kisses his forehead. "I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here. It's okay, we're safe."

His face contorts with pain. "My hands are burning."

And Faye starts crying again, because she can feel his hand and his fingers are hard and cold to the touch.


	30. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Simon loses the last two fingers on his left hand to frostbite. Up to the second knuckle of his middle finger on the same hand. And most of the little finger from his right. His earlobes as well.

But it could have been worse. A lot worse.

And while he spends the week in a morphine haze, Faye explores the research centre, slipping back to check on him. She's terrified that he'll die when she's not looking.

She finds a rifle in the room filled with dead men. A handful of cartridges. And even some diesel in a shed at the back of the base. Nowhere near as much as they lost on their journey, but some, she figures, is better than none. It will get them a little way. Hopefully that will be far enough.

By the time Simon is well enough to travel, the thaw is coming. They load up the pulk with what little they have and walk out to the shore, the dog following alongside.

It's there in the bay waiting for them. The _Arctic Fox_ , surrounded by melting pack ice, and they sink down onto the gravel, caught in the strange no man's land between laughter and tears.

* * *

But later, on the boat, Simon lies in the shadows of his bunk, staring at the ruin of his hand. At the blackened stumps of his missing fingers. Struggling to acclimatise himself to the deep rocking motion of the icebreaker. Wishing he had another vial of morphine.

When he closes his eyes, he's back in the ruins of the NSA listening post, alone except for the dead.

"Simon? You might want to see this." It's Faye, standing on the steps, lit from behind by the light of the sun. It glows around her head like a halo, and he closes his eyes because he can't bear to look at her.

"What is it?"

She holds her hand out. "Come and see."

So he takes her hand, lets her lead him up the steep steps, and out onto the deck of the little boat. And out in the sea, he sees the rolling backs of a pod of humpback whales breaking the surface of the water. The air is almost warm, and when one of the whales sprays water from its blowhole, the sunlight glitters in the water droplets. The air tastes of salt, and he can't help himself; he laughs and pulls Faye back into his arms.

Because none of it matters. Not his missing fingers, or the loss of contact with Operation Bitemark. Not even the long empty horrors of the Polar night.

They are here and they are together and they are alive.

~End~

* * *

 **A/N: And we're done. Thank you so much to everyone who's read this far and especially to those of you who've left comments or followed or favourited. It means a lot knowing that people are reading my writing and enjoying the story. This was the story that got me back to writing after far too long away, and I had a blast writing it. I know it's a long way from perfect, but I'm immensely proud of it (even it that's just 'cause I actually got it finished).**

 **If you have read this far I would be thrilled if you left a review, whether one-liner or concrit. Both are appreciated. Reviews are the second most important lifeblood of writers, copious amounts of coffee being the first.**

 **Thanks again for reading and thanks also are owed to the cast and crew of Z Nation. I freaking love that show.**


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